


Salt Skin

by starkerized



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Debate Club AU, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-04 10:58:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3065285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkerized/pseuds/starkerized
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Steve’s unbiased eyes, Tony Stark is Midtown High's biggest flirt, narcissist, partier, and possibly a step above Hitler on Steve’s least favorite people list. </p><p>There he stands, self-satisfied smirk etching across his face, brown eyes dancing with amusement. Steve looks up at the sky. </p><p><i>Lord give me the strength to not rip his fucking face off.</i> (Debate Club AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is so much fun to write, oh my god. Taking out my anger through fictional characters (re: hot-headed high school senior Steve Rogers) beats therapy any day. This'll probably end up being somewhere between 50-60k and I have the next couple of chapters written, so expect about one a week. The rating will be updated as we go along, wink wink nudge nudge. 
> 
> I'll be posting updates/rambles/previews on my [tumblr](http://starkerized.tumblr.com/), too. Feel free to come ask questions/chill with me on there. Enjoy!

Steve can’t find his keys.

It wouldn’t be a problem if he hadn’t driven himself to class today, but he has, and his truck isn’t driving itself home. The senior resigns himself to walking home after the final bell rings.

Scratch that - after debate, the cornerstone of Midtown Science’s countless clubs and activities. It falls right below Science Olympiad, which goes without saying. When Bruce Banner and Jane Foster co-lead a club, it isn’t going to fall second to anything, no matter how much Steve prides himself on being president of the debate team. He’s only somewhat okay with ranking underneath a couple of certified geniuses, but that’s entirely his stubborn streak’s fault.

As Steve gathers his books from his tarnished locker, the weight of a familiar shoulder knocks into his. Bucky’s megawatt grin shakes Steve from his reverie and he notices the brunet’s hair is tied back. It’s still pretty warm out, only being September, though Bucky combats that bit of sensibility with the rest of his outfit. Heavy leather jacket, black skinnies, black combat boots. He claims it’s a punk thing, but Steve knows his best friend just doesn’t know how to dress to the weather like a regular human being.

“Excited for today’s meeting, Mister President?” 

Steve blows out a heavy breath as he slams his locker shut. He's not _un_ excited…  

“Stark’ll be there,” Bucky adds once the telltale crinkle between Steve’s brows appears. “I know you can’t wait to tear him a new one, but you gotta control yourself, Steve. Can’t have Fury barging in from all the noise, like last year.”

 _No_ , a touch of warmth colors Steve’s cheeks, _they can’t_. It happened twice last March; their screaming matches got so loud, the principal was called down. After being threatened with referrals (Steve knew Nick Fury was bluffing, he and Tony were both model students, but the thought still makes his stomach pool with dread) they managed to get the arguing down to a dull roar. Somewhat. Maybe, if pointed whispers and glares could be considered a step up from full-blown yelling. 

“I dunno, Buck. I have the feeling the freshmen only join debate for us, and if we stop, who’s gonna run the club when we graduate?” Steve’s teasing, really, but the long line of unfamiliar faces waiting outside room 248 only proves his point.

The idea that his and Tony’s yelling matches are the reason why they have so many new recruits makes Steve want to laugh and vomit at once. 

Bucky grins crookedly, the same confident smile that earns him so many dates. “You two are pretty much legendary,” he agrees as Steve opens the door and they all pile in.

248 is Mr. Coulson’s history classroom and said teacher acts as the club’s advisor. Steve and Coulson exchange the usual pleasantries, _how was your summer_ and _oh really, a cellist?_ Steve knows they’re closer than most students are with their teachers, but everyone knows Steve's a bit of a teacher’s pet. Not to mention Coulson’s cares more about football than his actual job, and Steve’s not afraid to use his position as Varsity quarterback to get on Coulson’s good side. The fan-worship can be a bit much, though.

Steve takes his seat at the front and takes stock of the classroom. All of their loyal members from last year trickle in, one by one. Natasha nods at him and drapes herself on top of the desk next to him. They make light conversation, mostly her making fun of his khakis and him balking. Steve’s known her since middle school but the two didn’t become close until they both joined debate freshman year, bonding over their shared love of history and intolerance for bullshit. 

Darcy squeals as she rushes in and gives Steve a one-armed hug, balancing a box of donuts in her other hand.

“Those are for us, right?” Steve tries not to sound too hopeful and fails spectacularly. He hasn’t eaten since 6 am. Lacking a lunch period and having an athlete’s metabolism is a terrible combination.  

She squints at him from behind her glasses and, bless her soul, sighs dramatically in a display of defeat. “I hate your puppy-dog eyes,” Darcy whines.

“They’re weapons of mass destruction,” says Natasha.

“Seriously,” Darcy says around a mouthful of donut, “I swear they’re the only reason you were elected pres. Eyes persuasive as fuck. S’like brainwashing.” Nonetheless, she brandishes the open box at Steve, who grins in thanks as he picks a glazed donut.

Tony Stark chooses that moment to swoop down out of absolutely nowhere like a bird of prey, nabbing a chocolate donut and giving Darcy a smacking kiss on the cheek. She squeals and shoves him away. Steve’s face and ears grow hot at the mere sight of him, flooded with righteous anger and annoyance and a thousand other emotions he can’t quite put into words.  

In Steve’s very unbiased eyes, Tony Stark is Midtown’s biggest flirt, narcissist, partier, manwhore, and worst of all he wears all of those titles with the pride of an eagle scout. He’s possibly a step above Hitler on Steve’s least favorite people list, the position locked after Tony dated Bucky sophomore year and broke his heart a month in.

And there he is, red flannel loose around his shoulders, skinnies slung low on his hips, smirk etching across his face, brown eyes dancing with amusement. Steve looks up at the sky.

_Lord give me the strength not to rip his fucking face off._

Tony’s doing the rounds with everyone in the room, introducing himself as the club’s treasurer, handing out donuts, radiating the infectious charm of someone who’s never had to work for anything a day of his life. Bucky spots Steve from across the room and makes his way over, cheeks pinched as though he’s barely holding in a laugh.

His restraint breaks when he sees Steve up close. “Down, dog,” he chuckles, mussing Steve’s hair.

Steve sputters, waving an arm towards Stark’s general direction. “How can you say that? After what he did.” Bucky heaves a sigh, saying for perhaps the millionth time: 

“It was almost two years ago, Steve. You need to let that go.” Steve purses his lips and Bucky rolls his eyes, the familiar argument settling over them like old dust. “Look, I’m not saying Stark isn’t a total scumbag. But he’s also the best damn treasurer this club has ever had and you know it.  Nobody can crunch numbers like this motherfucker,” he jerks his head towards the guy in question, “and ‘sides, you only have to deal with him for nine more months.”

“Well thank god for that.” He’s learned there’s next to no point in fighting Bucky on this, as much as he’s tempted to. Stark waltzes back to the front of the room as Bucky makes himself scarce and shoots a warning look at Steve, who waves him off. It’s written all over his face: _play nice_. 

“Oh, hey, Steve. Didn’t see you there,” Stark says smoothly, and Steve’s hands tighten on the desk underneath him.

 _Like hell you didn’t_.

“Cut it out, Tony. The hell do you take me for?”

 Stark shrugs, feigning innocence. “Honestly, I haven’t _taken_ you for anything,” he pauses with an accompanying leer. Steve’s pulse roars in his ears. That’s right, how could he have forgotten? Tony likes to mix up his insults with relentless come-ons, the kind that dig right under Steve’s skin and make him want to punch something. He isn’t usually like that, but let it be known that Stark always brings out the absolute worst in Steve. “Steve, honey. The yin to my yang, the hate of my life, and the dead weight of the team. The single reason we won’t even make it to regionals this year.” 

Steve’s blood boils at the reference to what had happened last year at the district competition. It should’ve been smooth sailing straight up to the nationals. Midtown had the best debate team in the tri-state area and everyone knew it. It was only Steve’s loud mouth and inability to back down from a fight that had gotten them disqualified, all thanks to some dick who insulted at their school’s precious reputation.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut it before I—”

“What? Punch me in the face and get your sorry ass disqualified for it?” Tony shoots back with a self-satisfied smirk.

Steve’s ears are ringing, the adrenaline pulsing through him like before a football game, except tainted by that ugly thing only Tony can dredge out from his personality. He knows he’s intimidating like this, all six feet and two inches of him crowding Tony’s shorter frame, but Tony doesn’t look phased in the least. If anything, his confidence swells, and that only makes Steve _more_ pissed, until—

“Settle down, Steve, the meeting hasn’t even started,” Coulson claps a hand on Steve’s shoulder, breaking him from his homicidal thoughts. The annoyance bleeds out of him in a rush, leaving him feeling cold and a little fragile as he jerks away from Tony and faces the room at large.

His grin feels false on his face. Bucky gives him a concerned look as the small sea of lowerclassmen waits on him expectantly. Steve clears his throat and sinks right into the little speech he’d prepared for this session, giving them the rundown on what happens at a usual debate meeting – practice for the district competition against local high schools, then regionals, then the national competition, if they’re lucky. He doesn’t mention his colossal fuck up from last year but can feel Tony’s eyes on him, and emphasizes the fact that they _will win_ this year, he swears they’ll kick serious ass, and a few people whoop and clap at that.

After that it’s easier to loosen up and introduce his fellow officers. Bucky lopes up and waves, says he’s vice president and no, the election wasn’t skewed, there was no presidential interference, and everyone chuckles at that. The entire school knows that Steve and Bucky come as a package. It’s a fact, like their school mascot is a fox, Steve Rogers leads the debate team and gay-straight alliance, and he gets into a lot of fights because of it.

Tony breezes up to the front and introduces himself as treasurer. “That means, for all of you who don’t know, I’m in charge of money, fundraisers, the like. I may not hack your bank accounts, no promises, though.” Steve loathes how condescending he sounds, like every word that comes out of his mouth is talking down to someone.

Last but certainly not least, Pepper Potts, their ultra-competent secretary and spokesperson, takes the stage. She’s also Tony’s primary confidant next to James Rhodes, but Steve likes to ignore that. Pepper’s fantastic, it’s universally agreed upon, and he’d rather not sully his opinion of her. 

Coulson clears his throat and tells the masses that most meetings will be spent doing mock-debates. Sometimes he’ll present an issue, split the club into two teams, give them some time to organize their thoughts and present them in a timed debate. Other times the officers will propose bills for consideration. Half the club will defend the bill and the other half opposes it. Coulson has the ultimate say as to who ‘wins,’ but it’s not about winning, he repeats for the fifth time. Steve snorts quietly at that.

Everyone knows you’re not in debate club unless you have something to prove, or are always in the mood to argue. He happens to be both. 

A nervous-looking, wiry freshman donning hipster glasses raises his hand. “That’s another rule, you don’t have to raise your hand. Just speak, but try not to interrupt whoever is,” Coulson says dryly, raising an eyebrow at Steve, whose lips twitch. “Especially if that person is me.”

“Uh, I was just wondering… about those competitions? Do we all get to go to those, or do you have to… I don’t know, try out?”

Steve smiles apologetically. “The standard competing team only has seven people, so only the upperclassmen can go. But we need you guys to prepare for when you’re juniors and seniors, and in the meantime it’s something to put on your resume.” A few kids nod, but the rest cringe and shift uncomfortably at the mention of college. Steve sympathizes a lot.

“Alright, so,” Tony claps his hands together and steps forward, absolutely magnetic, increasing the room’s energy by a few notches with a single word and a grin. Steve isn’t jealous. He definitely doesn’t envy how Tony takes charge with the same glib ease with which he does everything else. “Let's get right to it. Here’s a warm-up, especially for the newbies. I propose a bill to raise the speed limit to eighty miles per hour. Obviously not in the city, god, imagine that. On all major highways and limited access freeways in New York. Trucks stay at sixty in the right lane, but passenger vehicles can hit eighty. Uh, and more stipulations! Lowest is sixty. Construction area speed limit is fifty. Now for the evidence, or reasons why people should vote for your bill. You can’t bribe everyone, sadly.” That earns a few chuckles. Steve’s jaw ticks, and he can’t help but open his stupid mouth—

“Tony, most of them don’t even have their permits yet. Is this really the best example—” 

“Interruption, I’m being interrupted!” His tone remains light and the words are quick, but there’s definitely a fire in Tony’s eyes that was missing before. “As I was saying. Utah did this in ’08 and there have been fewer highway crashes since. And better compliance with the limit, obviously. Twenty percent reduction in drivers exceeding it. Most of you’ll find out how good that is, since it sucks to get a ticket when you’re under eighteen.” Tony makes a face and digs around in his messenger bag, presumably for an accompanying handout. Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. They’re supposed to have one for each bill but he can’t remember if Tony’s ever made them. He is who he is, though, so it only earns him a slap on the wrist from Coulson and a ticked off Steve.

Plus Tony’s bills are always incredibly well thought-out and exhaustedly researched, to the point where anyone would be nuts to go up against them because they’re that damn good. ‘Anyone’ excluding Steve, Natasha, and sometimes Darcy, which is how meetings usually go.

Not that Tony _ever_ needs to hear any of that. His overinflated ego might actually explode.

“Especially when your name’s Tony Stark and you have, what, five?” Bucky calls from the sidelines. Tony flips him off without pausing his search, a small quirk visible on his lips.

 “Touché, Barnes.” He produces the handouts, crumpled but still readable, and passes them around. “Here are more data reports on Utah and Wyoming. Did I mention Wyoming? They did the thing too. Also the autobahn in Germany, which needs no introduction. There are a ton of stats in this thing, feel free to skim or ignore ‘em. My point is, people drive as fast as they feel safe. If you end up driving upstate over spring break and get pulled over for going seventy, I want you to think about this bill, how it all could’ve been avoided, and it was your fault for not taking action when you should have.”

Steve tunes out the last part as he flips through the packet. It’s a solid bill, thorough, but that’s expected. Of course he still has concerns. As much as he hates to admit it, Tony was right about one thing – Steve is the yin to his yang, always his polar opposite worldview. If Tony wants to increase weapons manufacturing, Steve is throwing back the costs (financial, political, social) of war. When Steve proposed his bill for universal health care, Tony made a convincing case for private insurance, so convincing that the bill was rejected.

Steve hopes to make up for that incident now, but Darcy beats him to it. She’s already discarded the packet and is chewing thoughtfully on the end of her pen. “How does a minor with five tickets still have his license, and how is he even remotely qualified to write speed limit legislation?” 

“Two,” Tony snaps, glaring at Bucky, “and I wouldn’t have gotten them if it weren’t for police quotas and the current limit. Let's be honest, nobody in this club is qualified to write anything. I’m saying this from a New York State driver’s point of view, and I’m looking out for the safety of our future motorists.”

“Speaking of safety,” interjects Steve, “that really should be our main issue. Faster speeds lead to deadlier crashes.”  

It’s that easy. Tony’s expression hardens, and that’s when Steve has him hook, line, and sinker. “False, uniform speeds produce safer roads. It’s in the packet.” _That I graciously compiled and copied for once, you’re welcome_. He turns to the rest of the room, rolling up the papers into a thin tube for gesturing and pointing. “Some people operate under the sincere but _deluded_ belief that lower speed limits are always safer. However, there isn’t any safety justification to set a limit below the 85 th percentile,” Tony says loudly, back straight and eyes glittering sharp. Daring anyone to speak, the classroom is silently awestruck, and that’s when Steve stands up.

“If it’s such a no-brainer, I want to know why the country at large hasn’t done it already. There has to be a reason. Maybe… because it’ll boost fuel company’s profits,” Steve blinks as it hits him, reeling slightly. How didn’t he think of this sooner? Of course the son of an entrepreneur would be thinking about the economy. More specifically, the interests of the oil giants. “That’s it! Because no matter what, the faster you go, the more fuel you use. This bill will waste millions of consumer dollars on gas—”

“The hell are you talking about?” Tony spins around to face Steve, all pretense of civility lost. “If anything it’ll boost the economy, honey-bear. Not to mention it goes perfectly with the grain of current driving behavior!”

“By that you mean _your_ reckless habits. You’re not looking out for anyone except yourself—” And Steve finds himself biting his own tongue because _that_ must sting, it has to. He wants it to with a groveling kind of desperation he didn’t know he was capable of.

A brief, inexplicable emotion flashes across Tony’s face, but it disappears before Steve can read it, replaced by his trademark smirk.

A heartbeat later he realizes what a gigantic asshole he looks like right now. The suffocating shame acts as a bucket of ice water and his anger loses steam just as quickly as it’d sparked. The new members are swaying in their seats, a few eyes wide in shock, the old members simply resigned to it all. Way to make a good first impression, Steve. 

“I say we take this to the floor and hear what the _people_ want!” Sam Wilson calls from the back. Steve hadn’t seen his fellow football teammate enter but lets out a huge sigh of relief at the interruption.

He feels the weight of Coulson’s disappointed gaze on the side of his face when he sits down. Sam all but conducts the meeting from there. Natasha sidles up to Steve, the two of them sharing a single seat and both half-falling off.

“You take this club way too seriously,” she says after the group is split into two and everyone’s discussing Tony’s bill at length.

Steve props up his head against his fist and side-eyes her. “You think?” The club itself isn’t what he takes too seriously. He needs to work on that, he knows it, but he’s also stubborn as a mule and simply _can’t_. Not since he was a scrawny freshman walking into the debate room flanked by his best friends, and laid eyes on a brown-haired boy persuading the pants off of the other members. Overwhelmed by the stranger’s sheer force of personality, Steve didn’t know what to think of the whole thing. Tony used to look at him speculatively, as if he was a piece of machinery. It had left Steve unsettled.

That is, until Tony turned out to be a manipulative bully and heartbreaker. There’s no doubt about it in Steve’s mind now.

“And there’s a reason nobody listens to Stark, ever.”

“Yeah, the rest of you seem sane enough.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “I’m serious, Steve.”

Steve can’t help himself. Maybe his friends are right and he was born without a sense of self-preservation. “You’re taking this way too seriously, Natasha.”

She punches his bicep and it hurts way more than it should, but apparently his pinched face satisfies her. She lets it go, and Stark’s bill passes with flying colors. 

An hour and a half later Steve accepts a ride home from Peggy, who happens to leave her student government meeting just then.  

“So,” she starts after waving him over to her cherry red Jetta, “how’d it go? First meeting of the year and all, I assume you didn’t get suspended.” Her voice tapers off, distracted, as she starts the car.

A chuckle bubbles up from his throat, unexpected but welcome. She knows him too well. “Not yet, Pegs. I have all year for that.”

She hums in agreement, and that only makes his smile widen. Peggy proceeds to regale him with tales of her misadventures from student gov. During the drive she emphasizes the downfall of some dick named Gilmore Hodge who made a crack at her accent.

“And I couldn’t think he could get away with saying that shit,” she says archly, voice and driving carefully controlled while rage radiates from her bones. Steve wonders how he managed to become friends with such fantastic people. They’re really so far out of his platonic league. Especially Peggy; beautiful, take-no-shit Peggy who always finds time in her packed schedule to work out with him and marathon Parks and Rec right after. “Of course, I waited until after the meeting. It’s not beseeming of a club president to pick fights during meetings, you know,” she glances at him, unimpressed. Steve winces; he deserves that. “So I get him outside and he bows and says something about ‘your majesty’ and I give him a bruiser. Knocked him right on his arse,” she finishes, nonchalant as anything but unable to hide the vein of pride.

Deep down, they sure are made of the same stuff. “Such a lady,” he says, long-suffering. They’ve only known each other since Peggy moved to the States sophomore year but got along like childhood friends at their first meeting. It feels like they’ve been dealing with each other for decades, an old familiarity clinging to every interaction.  

“Fuck that! He got what was coming his way. I sped up the process, is all.”

“I need to take a page from your book,” Steve says before hesitation creeps up on him. He wouldn’t actually hit Stark. Would he? He’s felt the urge – he feels it practically every damn day – but at least they’re evenly matched, verbally. Using his extra size against Stark’s slighter stature would feel fundamentally wrong, he’s sure of it.

Sometimes he knows he’s already working up towards it, with the way they’re currently treating each other, but _god_. He’d rather die before he becomes a bully, the same kind of brute that shoved him into alleyways as a kid and made his life a living hell.

Peggy doesn’t reply immediately, but tips her head up to check her rearview mirror. Then she does a double take, then a triple. “Yes, well. Just make sure you don’t get caught,” she finally sighs.

“Peggy? What is it?”

“Someone’s following us, and I’d bet money on it being your best friend.” 

“What?” Exasperation settles in his throat as he checks his side mirror. Sure enough, a white Audi R8 with heavily tinted windows is following them, and there’s only one person who’d own that car in their neighborhood. Steve rubs his temple, suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion from a long week of classes and the constant thought of _why does it have to be me_. “God, what is he doing. Pull over, please.”

“Already on it,” and true to her word, they’re parked in the right shoulder of the road seconds later. Steve stumbles out of the idling car, jaw clenched as he slams the door and stalks over to the approaching vehicle, ready to demand an explanation—

–But Tony doesn’t even bother slowing down, just rolls down his passenger side window. Out sails an all-too familiar American flag keychain, as if haphazardly thrown from the driver’s side. Caught off-guard, Steve only gapes at the keys hurling towards him, until they smack against his left cheek with a clang and a faint sting.

He shuts his eyes, steeling himself and repeating the mantra _I will not kill Tony Stark, I will not kill Tony Stark_ , as Tony cackles like a madman and screams, “BULLSEYE!” over his blaring music before speeding away, the squeal of tires echoing in Steve’s tired brain.

Snatching his keys and his dignity from the asphalt, Steve plants himself in the passenger seat of Peggy’s car. She takes one look at him – breathing heavily, still seething, left cheek oozing blood – and silently puts the car in drive.

The seconds pass. “I’d chase him, but—” 

Steve’s lips twitch fondly. “Yeah.”

“If you bought me a Maserati with the money you’ve been making from tutoring, we wouldn’t be having this problem,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Who are you and what have you done to Peggy Carter?” The girl he knows would wipe Gilmore Hodge’s ass before she accepts a favor.

Her nose crinkles cutely at that. “Fair point. If I sold my soul and all of my possessions to afford a Maserati,” she corrects.

“Yeah, get used to it. That’ll be us after student loans.” 

Peggy groans. “Don’t remind me.” Steve cracks a sheepish smile and forgets about his keys and Tony fucking Stark, if only for a minute.

-&-

Tony awakes peacefully. He’s hungover, yes, but it’s far from the worst alcohol-induced headache he’s endured. At seventeen he’s already a hangover veteran with a tolerance completely shot to hell, and he definitely shouldn’t be as proud of that as he is.

But he won’t be satisfied until he can drink Natasha Romanoff under the table. That’s a pretty fair standard to set – “fair” meaning impossible, and allowing him to drink until his liver is happily pickled and he’s six feet under before hitting thirty.

Sprawled out on a stranger’s comfortable bed, sunlight streaming through the shutters and dancing across the wood floors, Tony’s remarkably okay with that thought.

Reality filters into his brain slowly, like an old newsreel speeding up; he’s at Thor’s house, it’s Saturday, he has no plans (project deadlines, meetings, nothing) for the first time in weeks, and is entirely free to do whatever the hell he wants. And currently, _whatever the hell he wants_ consists of seeing how long he can stay in the comfort of these sheets before he gets hungry enough to move.

Until a form stirs beside him. _Oh hell no_.

He blinks himself awake, frozen, eyes darting across the unfamiliar bedroom, a familiar brand of panic crawling up his chest. Tony takes a moment to thank whatever higher power there is for the fact that he’s not naked. Usually that’s not the case, which says a lot about him, but whatever.

He slowly attempts sitting up. The bed creaks and the prowler’s arm wraps itself around his waist. _Fuck this, fuck everything_. Tony sighs, dejected, ready to wait it out. They hum contentedly against him, warm breath fanning across Tony’s neck, and a shock of orange hair peeks up from under the sheets.

He recognizes that head of hair.

“Oh my fucking god,” he hisses, sitting up abruptly, “I slept with _you_?!” He doesn’t mean to sound as appalled as he does and it comes out rudely, but Natasha is firmly Camp Rogers. That’s a line that just isn’t crossed. _Ever_. Even if she is depressingly gorgeous and witty and out-of-reach, pretty much Pepper except more lethal, which is  _totally not the point_.

“You slept on _top_ of me,” she mumbles against his t-shirt, but dutifully untangles herself at the sound of his indignant screech. His breathing regulates itself. Okay, they inexplicably passed out in the same bed. He can work with that. “Don't flatter yourself, Stark.”

“But we’re… this is…” he stammers, examining the questionable state of his current hygiene. His mouth tastes like something died in it and doesn’t smell any better.

Her green eyes narrow, now irritated.  “Shut up, will you? Trying to sleep here.”

“Wait… are you. You are. You’re hungover!” Tony shouts, incredulous. Now it suddenly looks obvious, with the dark circles under her eyes and the way she firmly avoids the sunlight. Wow. This is blowing his mind. “I didn’t know you were biologically capable of it, being a Russian princess and all. Holy shit. Your liver isn’t actually _made_ of stone. Clint is gonna have a field day—”

In an impeccable show of tact and empathy, she shoves him off the bed and onto the cold hardwood floor below. Tony groans and rolls over, clutching his ass in pain.

“What the hell?” he whines, pouting. 

Natasha just stares down at him, entirely unaffected. “Clint won’t hear of this for as long as you enjoy having working eyeballs.” 

His eyes roam her expression for any signs of compassion. No such luck. “Duh, because I only have eyes for you, sweetheart,” he tries weakly.

It only takes seconds for Tony to realize his words are the shovel with which he is digging a very, very deep hole. He’s seconds away from excusing himself and crawling out, but something in his pathetic expression must make her take a microscopic degree of pity on him, because she sharply cuts him off. “Jesus Christ, just stop talking,” _and I’ll let you live_ goes understood. Tony’s lungs punch out a sigh of relief.

 _Dodged the first bullet of the day, and its not even 9am_. Natasha smirks at his silence and lays down again, her back facing him.

Tony all but scuttles back up the bed, no thanks to his intoxicated coordination.

The redhead visibly tenses. “If you touch me—”

“I’ll lose my hands, got it.” Tony faceplants onto the adjacent pillow. His new bedmate hums, pleased.

Needless to say, he can only hold back his raging internal monologue for so long. He flops onto his stomach, resting his stubbled chin on folded hands. “So, like, Barton doesn’t get to hear _any_ of this? ‘Cause jealous sex is hot as hell. Speaking from personal experience, here. I’ll even spice up the details for you.” He’s totally bullshitting. He’s never had anything close to a stable romantic relationship, forget one where he’d be far in enough to be actively jealous, god, imagine how miserable that’d be.

“Do you _want_ to be shoved off the bed again?” She rolls over to face him. His victorious grin resembles a shark’s.

“Not particularly. You’re avoiding the question.” Man, their faces are really close. Tony feels like he’s experiencing vertigo when his eyes cross. It would look and feel like pillow talk, for crying out loud, the sheets are drawn up to their shoulders and cocooning them in, except Natasha remains stone-faced and sleepy. Her poker face is on another _level_ , no wonder she’s one of the best members of the debate team. “Are you guys even fucking?” 

“If we were, you’d be the last one to know,” she says coyly. Tony does a little dance inside. He knows it’s absolutely impossible to stay mad at him (there’ve been a couple exceptions in recent history, clearly) but wasn’t completely sure his powers of persuasion would work on Natasha.

He arches an eyebrow, playing along. “I wouldn’t be so sure. You know how he gets when he’s drunk.”

“It’s not pretty,” she agrees, “but _you_ can hardly talk. Your breath stinks, by the way.”

Tony gasps, mock-offended. “At least I’m not spewing random bird facts?” It’s a habit of Clint’s, much to everyone’s amusement.

“No, but you spew bullshit.”

“Romanoff, you did not just say—”

The door opens in the middle of Tony’s sentence. “Hey Nat, Thor’s making waffles, what kind do y—” Steve stops mid-ramble as he takes in the scene in front of him. He looks ridiculous with bedhead and wearing yesterday’s rumpled clothes, just as they all do right now, and _shit_. The tiny scab on his left cheek makes Tony’s stomach twist. He hadn’t meant to throw the keys hard enough to cut his goddamn stupid _face_ , and he forces down the unbidden emotion that tastes too much like guilt. He waits for the feeling to dissolve into glee or satisfaction, but for some reason it never does.  

And it’s strange because Tony didn’t see Steve at the party last night, he would remember it, right? While drunk he’d probably lack the self-control to not take Rogers’ ego down a peg or five. It’s a thin enough line when they’re sober.

Tony immediately shuts his mouth, a first. Natasha hastens to put space between herself and Tony, rolling out of the bed with the grace of a ballerina, an inexplicably guilty look etched onto her face as she looks at Steve almost— apologetically?

The brunet doesn’t have time to fully process Natasha’s expression. As soon as he glances back at the intruder it’s clear Steve’s good mood has taken a sharp nosedive. Over the course of two seconds Natasha and Steve become locked in some silent battle, communicating not through words, but with their eyes: Natasha’s conciliatory, Steve’s icy and agitated.  

See, this is exactly why Tony had panicked over the mere idea of sleeping with Natasha. Even if they actually had done the do, it wouldn’t be anywhere _near_ worth the aftermath.

After ten curt seconds, Steve finally pulls out the white flag. Something he’d never do if he were locked in an eye-battle with Tony. “Well,” he says in a distant voice so unlike him it’s disconcerting, “I guess I’ll leave you two to it.”

He shuts the door forcefully, and Tony can hear his footsteps stomp down the stairs.

Tony looks at Natasha, completely confused. All of Steve’s irritation was directed towards her, not Tony, which makes _zero_ sense. If the two of them are in a room together, Steve’s crosshairs automatically focus on Tony and vice versa. This was… out of the ordinary, to say the least. “Mind telling me what that was?”

She strolls over to the full-length mirror hanging on the back of her door and preoccupies herself with fixing her hair. From her reflection, Tony can see that she looks undecided, as if she’s hit a fork in the road and is unsure of which path to take. Finally she meets his eyes and shrugs. “Nothing. Steve’s just being a little shit. I’ll take care of him.”

And with that, she’s gone.

Tony lets himself fall, the back of his head hitting the pillow with a jarring thump. Only one thought runs through his brain.

_Fuck. I want waffles._

After that worms its way into the forefront of his mind, it’s all Tony can think about. His stomach grumbles impatiently, too. Maybe food is a good idea. Tumbling out of bed with a wince, he stumbles to the nearest bathroom and flushes his disgusting mouth out – he’s not actually trying to decapitate anyone with the stench, believe it or not – and meanders downstairs, cool as you please, and definitely _not_ staggering down the winding staircase of Thor’s mansion.

So it turns out he’s still a little drunk from last night, no biggie.

The ultra-modern kitchen (it reminds Tony of home) is filled with about ten people he knows but is too undercaffienated to deal with. At his entrance, Thor looks up from the row of waffle irons lining the counter, a ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron clinging to his broad chest. Tony salivates at the smell and Thor beams in greeting. “Tony! Sleep well?” he calls, teasing. The brunet heaves himself onto a stool and rests his head against the marble countertop with an accompanying grunt. Thor’s laugh fills the entire kitchen, thunderous and earnest as always. 

Tony doesn’t know much about Thor, only that his father is a CEO, just like Tony’s, and Thor throws kickass parties to rival his own. He’s straightforward, easy to talk to, always ready with an endless supply of alcohol, and that’s all Tony looks for in an acquaintance. They’re classmates and Thor seems to consider them friends – he’s like that with everyone, but Tony ended up liking the guy more than he originally thought he would.

He scrapes himself off the counter with a truly herculean effort and throws on a carefree smile. “Sure looks like you did, big guy.” 

Thor nods, preoccupied with pouring just the right amount of blueberry batter into a waffle iron. “I have Jane to thank for that.”

“What, she tucked you in?”

“That’s the G-rated version, yes,” the aforementioned girl pops her head out from behind the pantry doors, frowning. “And we’re out of chocolate chips.”

Thor looks genuinely devastated by that news and Tony’s inclined to agree. In his peripheral vision, Rhodey slides onto the stool next to his and Tony’s smirk eases into pursed lips. He’d lost track of Rhodey after their fifth shots, and his best friend looks like he’d downed at least five more.

Tony snorts. “You look like shit.”

Rhodey, who covers his eyes with a hand, parts his fingers to shoot Tony a glare. “And you smell like it.”

“Hey, I showered, like, two days ago—”

“A new record. What are you even doing up? Last night you were screaming about how you’re a free man today, whatever that means.”

Had he? He doesn’t remember. “I was planning to sleep in, but was interrupted by an,” he clears his throat, partly to relieve the soreness and partly for dramatic effect, “unexpected guest.”

It’s probably a sign that Rhodey’s so desensitized to Tony’s drunken escapades that he bats a hand dismissively at the suggestion. He hears about these antics at least twice a week. Tony clearly needs to up his game. “Yeah, yeah. You know what they say about the best laid plans…”

“No, I don’t think I do. Enlighten me.”

“Often, they are led astray by this one drunk asshole’s lack of self control.”

“I’d hate to be that poor shmuck,” Tony drawls, passing down the stack of plates Thor hands to him.

 “Too late.” Rhodey cranes his neck to watch someone enter and immediately leave the room behind Tony’s back. “Huh. You wouldn’t happen to know, or be, the reason why Steve has a dark thundercloud of fury hanging over his head?”

Tony’s distracted by the passing out of waffles and Rhodey’s words don’t register. He’s too busy stuffing his face. When he finally resurfaces, Rhodey’s leveling him with an expectant look. “What?”

“Nevermind, you just answered it for me.” 

He swallows the chunk of blueberry waffle dry. It scrapes a pathway down his throat yet it’s somehow the best thing he’s eaten all week. It’d be better with coffee, yes, coffee is a good idea. Tony snaps his fingers, gesturing towards the rumbling coffeemaker and Thor, bless him, pours him a mug. After washing down the remnants of his waffle with scorching hot black caffeine, he finally says, “Natasha said PMS. I’ll grab him some Midol. It’ll be fine, I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Of course, Rhodey sees right through him. “That’s reassuring, coming from you.”

“Damn right it is.”

“It wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with how he found you and Natasha in the same bed, would it?”

Tony examines the porcelain plate in front of him as if memorizing the exact size and appearance of every crumb on it. “No,” he says slowly, because it’s true, and he’s puzzled over the same question in the back of his mind all morning. How does Rhodey even know about that, and more importantly, what the hell would it have to do with anything? Steve’s probably pissed that he didn’t get his waffles, because his blood pressure goes through the roof over literally everything. It’s likely something stupid that doesn’t involve Tony whatsoever, which would be a refreshing change of pace. Watching Steve pop a vein is always fun, but Tony could do without the guilt that accompanies it once in awhile.

Rhodey opens his mouth to reply but is interrupted by Darcy and Clint, who appear out of thin air. Clint’s drinking Thor’s coffee straight from the carafe, which is kind of gross but completely typical of him. He’s the only person Tony knows with a caffeine addiction worse than his own. Darcy props her elbows on the countertop matter-of-factly and speaks with more enthusiasm than anyone has a right to have at 9 AM. “We weren’t eavesdropping, but we totally were. It’s so obvious, you and Steve clearly have some—”

“—pent up sexual frustration for one another,” Clint finishes after a long gulp of coffee, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

This is when Tony would blush, if he were still physically capable of blushing. His heart races a little faster in his chest, nonetheless, and he pulls an offended face. “Okay, I’m going to direct you to a mental hospital, because Steve and I aren’t even friends. In case you’ve been deaf – looking at you, Clint – during debate meetings, you know I have to constantly restrain myself from—” 

“Jumping his bones daily?” cuts in Rhodey, the filthy traitor.

“Killing him daily,” Tony glares at the snickering peanut gallery, setting his mug down with finality. Now he’s seriously confused, and slightly annoyed, if he’s honest. There’s absolutely _nothing_ in his relationship with Steve, if you could even call it that, to back any of this shit. “You’re all ganging up on me, where is this even coming from—”

Darcy’s eyes roll so far back into her head it’s painful to watch. “Oh, come on. I see how you two look at each other when you think no one’s watching.”

Gritting his teeth, Tony stands, the stool scraping against the wooden floor. “Yeah, like we despise each other with the passion of a thousand burning suns. Because we do. Hate each other, that is,” and he’s on a roll now, barreling over Clint when he starts to object. “He’s the bane of my existence. Literally. He constantly makes me feel like shit. You should all know that, everyone does, why am I bothering to explain this right now.” He puts the force of an entire morning of stifled frustration behind the words, but Clint just shakes his head and shares a knowing smile with Darcy and Rhodey, the assholes. Tony starts seeing red, his blood boiling. 

 _Calm the fuck down_ , he chastises himself, _remember, you actually like them_. Rationally, he knows they aren’t intentionally trying to get a rise out of him. He doesn’t even understand why this bothers him so much. It’s not like this is new – a lot of people assume his and Steve’s uninhibited hatred of one another is just a way for them to cope with some sort of sexual attraction. They couldn’t be more wrong. Tony can pinpoint the reasons he dislikes Steve as much as he does, hell, could write a mile-long list, and is absolutely certain they have nothing to do with repressed mutual chemistry.

Yes, it’s hardly a secret that he finds Steve physically attractive; you’d have to be blind not to. But it doesn’t lessen Tony’s resentment towards his brick wall of a personality. If anything, Steve’s model-worthy looks make Tony despise him more, because Steve is so, hugely out of his league it isn’t even funny, yet also the most righteous snob to walk the earth. It’s a contradiction he’s never quite managed to wrap his (truly brilliant, all things considered) mind around.

Anyhow. He’s sick of the insinuations, and this morning is the last straw. “I’m heading out,” he says tersely, grabbing another handful of waffle for good measure. “In the meantime, you guys can begin another enthralling conversation about my personal life, or lack thereof!”

He feels the eyes of everyone in the kitchen on him, and for the first time in his life the attention does nothing for his mood. Tony doesn’t stagger through the post-party mess in the living room, he _struts_ with his head up, thank you very much. 

Phone, check. Wallet, check. Dignity: nowhere.

 _I need a fucking drink_. 

-&-

“Man, you should’ve seen Schmidt’s face!” Sam crows. The Varsity football team piles into the locker room that Monday, post-practice. “When you made that play, he looked ready to shit himself!”

“That explains the smell,” Bucky drawls.

Steve ignores him, toweling his sweaty hair dry. “Schmidt thinks he can make and control every play. No wonder you guys lost every game last year.” He’d still been on Junior Varsity, practicing like hell to get into shape and eventually make it into the bigger team. His then-frail body often betrayed him, but Steve pushed his physical limits time after time.

Though he still can’t get rid of the asthma. It’s an uphill struggle.

Bucky opens his locker with a dramatic sigh. “I don’t wanna think about last season. We lost to the fucking Hydras!” Their sister school and biggest rival nabbed the championship after their old quarterback’s biggest blunder. It’s still a sore spot at Midtown. Steve thinks, for the hundredth time, that he has a lot to make up for this year.

A few of their teammates yell back, “No shit, dickhead!” and “The sky is fucking blue, you wanna fight about it?” Bucky snickers and sprays what should be an illegal amount of axe into the air.

“Yo, put that shit away!” Sam fans away the fumes. 

“What, you wanna feel like a walking dumpster?”

“Better that than a prep. Chicks want that natural _musk_.”

“Sam, no one’s threatening your masculinity,” Steve snorts, pulling off his pads.

“Yeah, yeah. Just not trying to smell like a Abercrombie model.” 

Bucky humors him, “You don’t have to, there’s already one right here.”

Steve flushes self-consciously. He can blame that on his recent workout, right? Because whenever people point out his looks, he feels like that five-foot-four freshman all over again. He knows he’s still the same person, but people started paying more attention to him when he hit his growth spurt two years ago. Not like it really matters – he prefers to keep a close circle of friends, and the lineup hasn’t changed much over his high school career.

It’s also why he gets especially homicidal when Stark hits on him like there’s no tomorrow. Steve’s not blind and he worked hard to earn his physique, but Tony pointing it out never fails to evoke his hair-trigger temper. There’s a tiny part of his brain that knows Stark might actually be sincere, but his flirtations are always barbed. That, along with who he is as a person, makes it virtually impossible for Steve to take his compliments at face value.

Steve’s about to pull on a fresh t-shirt when a high-pitched squeal resonates from the general direction of the showers. Then comes a lower grunt, tinged with laughter.

 _Is this your idea of a joke?_ he silently asks the universe. The three of them exchange looks and head towards the showers with justice on their minds.

Two figures come trampling out of the communal row of showerheads, both snickering. A wild-eyed blonde Steve doesn’t recognize, with her blouse half-buttoned and skirt hiked up, scampers up and out of sight. The other person is a little too familiar and very, _very_ naked. He bears his signature fuck-the-world smirk, and his typically messy locks are soaked and dripping, leaving a trail of water droplets down his tanned chest and back; winding, snaking remains of a failed sexual transgression. Failed as it was, his jaunty demeanor suggests that the action of getting caught is more pleasing to him than the actual sex, which concerns Steve, even though it shouldn’t. 

It also makes his fists clench, white-knuckled. How many times will he catch Tony in compromising positions this week? There was Saturday with Natasha, and now he’s actually _naked_ , and Steve would like a hole to open up in the ground so he can bury himself and pretend this isn't happening.

“Well,” Tony observes Steve’s disgusted expression bemusedly. It takes every fiber of Steve’s tenuous restraint to keep his eyes above Tony’s waist. There’s a moment of weakness when his eyes slink to the dark trail of hair winding down his navel, which is bad, _bad Steve_. “That didn’t go as planned.” Steve hears Sam and Bucky chuckle at his flippant attitude, the bastards, but Steve continues to glare. Tony’s eyes unabashedly roam over Steve’s exposed skin, and Steve ignores the way that brings pinpricks of heat to his chest.

This is so, _so_ fucked up.

“Tony,” he hisses, “please tell me you didn’t have shower sex in the communal.”

The asshole’s smirk grows. “Steve, I did not have shower sex in the communal. I _almost_ had shower sex in the communal, but, unfortunately, Christie is vocal and I was rudely interrupted.”

Sam laughs, “Dude, don’t you know her? We just saved you from a million STDs. You should be grateful.” 

“And put away your junk. No one needs to see that,” Bucky says, arms folded over his chest.

Tony snorts but obliges, grabbing a nearby towel and wrapping it around his waist. Steve desperately wishes he could be that comfortable with his own body; Tony had forgotten he was in the nude until it was pointed out to him. “Whatever. And in that case, thank you, for saving my phallus from painful infections, and helping me in my quest to sow as many of my wild oats as possible.” 

“Yeah, get the fuck out of here,” Sam says as Tony uses another towel to dry his hair. Steve hates the idea of letting Stark off the hook so easily, but finds himself transfixed by the beads of water slipping down his brown locks. He watches, hating himself a little, as they slide down his neck and roll onto his bare chest, splay out across his back, glide down the taut muscles of his lean, muscular arm— _Get a grip on yourself, Steve. This is Stark we’re talking about. This is not remotely okay, you cannot be thinking these things about him, he’s a manwhore, he’s an asshole, a douchebag, a—_

“Earth to Steve?” Stark’s voice breaks through his trance. Steve jolts slightly, eyes narrowing as Tony’s smug face comes into view. “Wow, you need some serious TLC. Maybe I should call Christie back. Work out some of that frustration, hm? I know it’s _hard_ , being a huge stick in the mud, but you gotta cut it loose sometimes—”

“What, like you?” Steve says, the heat on his face rising. “So I should pick any disease-ridden girl or guy, invade their personal space—”

“It’s called _consent_ , Rogers, not like you’ve ever given it!” Tony yells over him, but Steve doesn’t pause or hesitate.

“—all so I can ‘sow my wild oats’? Is that all people’s bodies are to you, a game, a headcount so you can feel better about yourself for half an hour?”

For a moment, Tony’s expression changes. His irritating smirk vanishes, replaced by a strange, unused visage. He looks almost— disappointed? But that can’t possibly be right, and Steve doesn’t care, he _shouldn’t care_. Tony is selfish, and shallow, and quite frankly, Steve’s tired of his spontaneous moments of unruly raunchiness. If there’s one person on this earth Steve will never see eye-to-eye with, it’s Tony Stark, and nothing Tony says or does will change his opinion. 

“I’m insulted, Rogers. An hour, at _least_ —” he begins, but Steve cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

“Save it, Tony. I know you have your excuses, and jokes, and witticisms. But frankly? I don’t give a _shit_. Have fun, sow your oats, I don’t care what you do. But next time, do me a favor and keep me and my teammates out of it.”

And just as quickly as something resembling a sincere Tony had arrived, he disappears, replaced by his usual unperturbed self. “You know you’re much more attractive when you’re not speaking,” he sneers.

“Yeah? Well you’d be much more attractive if you weren’t breathing,” Steve snaps. Bucky chokes on a laugh.

Sam quickly steps between them and places a hand on both of their chests, pushing. “Think I’m going to wave the figurative white flag here. Go back to your corners, Dumb and Dumber, put the claws away. We’ll pick this up next week.” He wraps a sweaty arm around Steve’s shoulder, manhandling him away from the showers and back to the lockers. Steve hears Tony huff behind him and his bare feet padding against the fungus-infested floors.

“How adult of you,” Steve intones as Sam deposits him on the bench. 

“I try. Man, is it me, or was that the single gayest thing I’ve ever seen?” Steve’s eyes snap to Sam, then to Bucky, who’s laughing his ass off.

“Not just you. They really need to get a fucking room,” Bucky says after he catches his breath, wiping a single tear from his eye.

Steve collapses. Is he really _that_ obvious?

Sam looks incredulously at Steve. “You seriously don’t see how that looked? Two partially naked – all right, one fully naked, even better – guys checking one another out in a locker room? How is that not the beginning of every cheesy gay porno ever made—”

“Oh my god, Sam. Shut up.” Steve puts his tomato-red face in his hands and Bucky pats his shoulder consolingly. 

“There, there. If it helps any, he probably has at least ten STDs too,” he says helpfully. Steve lets himself fall forward, his head resting against the cool metal of a locker.

 _This is so, so bad_ , he thinks again. After years of blissful ignorance, he finally understands why half of Midtown is tripping over themselves to sleep with Tony. At this moment there isn’t enough brain bleach in the world for Steve Rogers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's light on actual plot but has a _lot_ of Steve/Tony interaction, as a thank-you for the awesome comments and tumblr messages! Every single bit of feedback means the world to me, encouraging and critical and everywhere in-between. You guys are the fucking best. 
> 
> As always, you can join me on [tumblr](http://starkerized.tumblr.com/) (where I'm currently liveblogging Agent Carter, which is GLORIOUS).

On Friday, Tony arrives first to an empty room 248. He freezes, blinks, checks his digital watch. “Huh.” The genius opted to skip school that day – come on, it’s Friday, he’s acting on the urge everyone feels – and was positive he’d left on time to arrive fashionably late. Usually he breezes inside fifteen minutes in with a cup of coffee, jumps right into the heat of things. There’s no reason he should waste his time waiting for a meeting to warm up and gain its footing.

So apparently he sped more than he thought. What’s the point of having a sports car if you don’t go thirty miles per hour above the speed limit at all times, anyway? There is absolutely none, and if you disagree, shame on you.

Shit. Maybe Darcy had a point at last week’s meeting: he’s the last person on earth who should be drafting new speed limit laws.

The door opens behind him and Tony starts, breaking out of his musings. “Hey there, Coulson,” Tony coos, sidling up to the peeved-looking teacher. Uh-oh. “You’re looking dapper, as always.” It’s not a lie, the guy shows up to work wearing a three-piece suit, looking like an agent straight out of a Bond movie.

“Hey, Tony. I trust you’re ready for today’s meeting?” he asks placidly, yet an undeniable devilish glimmer lingers in his eye. Tony wracks his brain but can’t recall doing anything particularly offensive these past few days. Maybe Coulson knows he skipped? No, Tony scraps the idea immediately. He only teaches eleventh grade history. It’s not like Tony’s in his class or sees him outside of debate club.

Then again, Coulson’s one of those teachers with a sixth sense for unsavory behavior. He imagines this is what having a parent who pays attention is like. God, what a nightmare.

“You know me,” Tony says sarcastically. “Always prepared.”

“You were last week,” Coulson points out. “Incredibly so. Almost like you were hoping Steve would jump on it and make a fool of himself.” The teacher looks like he’s swallowed something sour, as if he hadn’t meant to let that last part slip. 

 _Oh, so **that’s** what this is about._ Coulson’s weird crush on Steve is hardly a secret; he wore his jersey to a game, for heaven’s sakes. And he’s equally overprotective of everyone’s favorite all-American quarterback. It’s hardly the first time they’ve had this conversation. Or, more accurately, the first time Tony’s had this scolding. 

He swallows. Contrary to popular belief, Tony does care what a few people think of him, and he doesn’t want to get himself kicked out of the only club he really enjoys. “Uh, yeah, look, sorry about that.” He barely restrains himself from adding that it’s not _his_ fault if Steve decides to be a stubborn son of a bitch and make himself look like a raging idiot. Really, there’s nothing Tony can do to prevent that. 

His stuttered apology seems to mollify Coulson, at least for now. “Don’t worry about it.”

That brings Tony up short. “Really? You sure? Not that I _want_ you to get mad or whatever you are, but…” It’s unlike Coulson to just let this issue go. Tony wouldn’t be surprised if he proposed to Steve and placed a hit on Tony for constantly taunting him.

But he only chuckles lightheartedly, “Of course, it’s fine. It’s not like I expected anything less.”

“Okay,” Tony stretches out the word, scrutinizing the man, “if you say so.” There’s a get-out-of-jail free being dangled in front of his nose; he’s not standing by and letting this opportunity pass. Maybe he’d misinterpreted the message Coulson had been sending, it’s always possible. Maybe he’s reading too far into it and his words held no underlying meaning. That glint in his eye might’ve just been the fluorescents, or Tony was hallucinating from skipping four nights of sleep again. It could’ve been anything, really, and Tony forcefully pushes his lingering doubts aside, determined to have fun at this meeting if it kills him.

Coulson, the smug fucker, gives him a firm nod while other members start to meander in. “I do, because we’re addressing the issue today, before it affects the rest of the team. Or worse, damages our performance at a competition. 

Tony throws his head back and groans dramatically _, because are you fucking kidding me_. Still, a part of him prays he heard that wrong as the weight of dread settles in his stomach. He totally saw that coming. “Okay, okay,” he feigns ignorance, “so Rogers’ll get disciplined, I mean, he’s the one who shot our spot in the nationals to hell last season, and we’ll continue on merrily. Not a big deal, got it.”

Coulson doesn’t quite scoff but it’s a close call. “Nice try. He’s waiting for you in room 250. 

“What?” His jaw actually drops at that. “You can’t do that, I’m an officer—” 

“Sure I can,” Coulson arches an eyebrow. “And now that you mention it, Steve’s your superior, isn’t he? He agreed to this.” 

Tony finds it hard to believe Steve would agree to anything that requires the two of them to be in close proximity for any amount of time. “Yeah, I’m starting to think you _want_ us to attract Fury’s attention and/or blow up the building.”

Coulson doesn’t even look up from the stack of papers he’s sorting through on his desk. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go meet him and sort this out. You didn’t sign up for this club to stare at me all day.”

“Alright, I get it. Har-har, very funny, I’ve learned my lesson. ”

Tony can recognize when someone’s phasing him out. Coulson's brow furrows as he reads what is probably some junior’s half-assed scribbles passed off as a paper. “No, Tony, I’ve decided to save my comedic genius for my career on the stand-up circuit.” 

His tone is final and Tony can tell he’s about to push his authority if the conversation drags on. Potentially even threaten Tony’s club status, which is _not_ happening, and if Tony had been a different kind of person he would’ve accepted defeat. 

His nostrils flare and he clenches his fists. “Coulson—” 

Tony’s cut off with a steely glare. “You are going to do this, regardless of your fear of the sexual tension between you and Steve.” He bristles, already making plans to decapitate the next person who mentions that. “The other officers and I have already discussed this—” 

“Pepper knows about this?!”

“—and we agreed that your constant arguing isn’t good for the team dynamic, forget our performance at competitions. We’re giving you today’s meeting to work it out. I trust that’ll be enough.”

Gone is the bland, matter-of-fact Coulson Tony knows. Instead, he’s transformed himself into Business Coulson: a person Tony is neither familiar with nor fond of. And he’s telling Tony, in no uncertain terms, that there’s no getting out of this, and furthermore, that this is a test to see how capable he is.

And failing that test, regardless of how Rogers feels, is not an option.

“Going, going,” he sighs, holding his hands up and walking backwards through the doorframe. He catches a final glimpse of Coulson’s satisfied face before turning the corner.

His hands are shaking, blunt nails digging into his palms. “Fuck you, Coulson, fuck you,” Tony spits under his breath as soon as he’s out of sight, resigned but still livid. And the one person he normally takes it out on is suddenly untouchable. Steve has always been his sparring partner, his human punching bag, and Tony his. That’s how it works. They aren’t wired to be _friendly_ , or civil for more than two minutes at a time. The idea of spending over an hour together seems like the most pointless and ludicrous idea ever. You don’t throw bleach and ammonia together and expect them to get along.

He seriously contemplates making a run for it and skipping the rest of the school year, but Coulson would definitely boot him, and he’d never hear the end of it from Rhodey and Pepper.

It only takes five steps to reach room 250, another history classroom left conveniently empty with the exception of one (1) pissy-looking Steve Rogers. Mix with one (1) equally ticked-off Tony Stark, let stew for forty minutes, to create a dozen (12) verbal explosions and one (1) almost-broken desk.

Yeah, a recipe for success.

“Hey there, gorgeous,” he greets as he walks in. Steve’s standing by the door, arms crossed and jaw clenched. “Ready for an hour of fun?” And because he feels like acting on spite, he winks and lightly smacks Steve’s ass as he passes.

Steve’s face goes from annoyed to murderously red in one second flat, a new record. He also looks like he’s contemplating putting a bullet in his own head. Tony smirks and stares, waiting for him to say something, anything. Usually at this point he’d be running his smart mouth, lecturing Tony on the virtues of personal space and abstinence, or whatever.

An hour together. An _hour_. Tony can’t even fathom being near him for more than two minutes without pulling a whole wad of hair out of his head in frustration. Just thinking about this righteous prick makes his stomach churn.

Astonishingly, Steve doesn’t move to snap Tony’s neck, which would be a blessing at this point. “Why the long face, Stevie-bear?” he asks snidely. But Steve, exhibiting an unusual amount of self-discipline, only shrugs stiffly. Disappointing, to say the least.

In fact, if Tony didn’t know any better, he’d say Steve looks _nervous_. He’s shuffling his feet like a five-year old and rubbing the back of his neck every five seconds, stare firmly fixed on the wall next to Tony’s face. Tony’s eyes whisk across his idiotically attractive features, curiosity taking over. Steve eventually stares back, but there’s no heat fueling it. Without the pretense of an argument and Steve’s usual shield of snippy comments, their interaction is… bare. And Tony realizes that he can’t even imagine his and Steve’s conversation without the constant flow of biting quips.

_This is going to be a long, awkward hour._

Tony slumps into a chair a couple seats away from Steve’s, kicking his feet up on the desk. Steve pointedly gazes back, eyes stormy and conflicted. Tony can’t help but cringe a little at the way prying eyes are burning a hole into the side of his head. 

Out of nowhere Steve blurts, “Tony, are you… what’s going on?” He sounds a little surprised at the words, like they came out without his permission.

Tony has a multitude of replies waiting to roll off the tip of his tongue, ranging from “Fuck off,” to “My problem? Would you like a mirror?” but bites them back, all for the sake of civility.

And besides, why on earth would Rogers care if he were upset? Tony knows for a fact that Steve doesn’t give a single _shit_ about him after that whole locker room debacle, the fact is crystal clear. So why is he bothering to pretend to? He racks his brain for a possible explanation for Steve’s sudden, unexplainably anxious behavior, and only two possibilities come to mind.

1)    It’s an act, an act he’s using to get something he wants.

This would seem like the most reasonable explanation, except Tony’s known him (just because he despises the guy doesn’t mean he automatically stops getting to know him, he might add) for years. There isn’t a scheming bone in Rogers’ body. Hell, the guy would take a hit to the face before he descends to manipulation. His “honor” is too important, he has the morals of a fairy tale prince—

 _Tony, Tony, Tony. What the fuck? Stop. Rogers is not Prince Charming, even if he looks like a fucking Ken doll, he’s an abrasive prude jerk with an ego the size of Texas. This is not the time to think of him as… anything else_. 

Which leads him to the second option:

2)    He actually cares.

It’s preposterous, and definitely outlandish, but maybe, just maybe, it could be true.

Realistically, Tony knows this isn’t that huge of a deal, that he shouldn’t be over-analyzing the situation. But sharing his actual, honest emotions with Steve would mean that Tony actually cares about him, at least enough to ease his (possibly?) worried mind. And he doesn’t. He isn’t going to give Steve the satisfaction of thinking he can win him over with one faux-worried glance.

And Tony would’ve told him all of that. Everything – that has no right to pretend to care, and that the reason behind Tony’s foul mood isn’t any of his business, and that no amount of “concern” would move him enough to do Steve any favors. But he simply can’t. 

Because he has to be fucking civil.

So instead, he draws from his limited reservoir of self-restraint, shrugs, and pulls out his phone, determined to burn through the time with some kind of distraction. As he fiddles with it and checks his social media apps, he sees Steve sigh and take a leather bound book out of his bag. 

 _Typical Rogers, still lost in the Stone Age_. He has to actually bite his tongue to stop the comment from rolling out and it _hurts_ , but Tony successfully fakes obliviousness. 

“Seriously, Stark,” his frown deepens when Steve calls him by his last name – Steve knows he hates that, “is there anything I… can do?”

_No, fuck you, you’ve already done enough… You look at and talk to me like I’m the scum of the earth, as if I should constantly be ashamed of who I am. You forcefully hate everything I support and can’t stand to hear the other side of an issue. You completely shut me down every time I reached out to you freshman year, like you thought you were so much better than me and you didn’t even **know** me._

_And I’m stuck here with you, and you’re clearly trying to make an effort for the club, but that doesn’t change the last three years. I still have to spend an hour with the one person on the planet who loathes my existence and annoys the living shit out of me like no one else. So no, there’s absolutely nothing you can do._

“No, it’s fine,” Tony manages to reply through gritted teeth.

He keeps his attention buried in his phone.

Minutes pass. Steve stays blessedly quiet, the scratch of his pencil on paper the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

Feelings of immense relief wash over Tony in waves as the first half hour comes and goes. He’s never been more grateful for silence and feels his jaw unclench, releasing tension he hadn’t noticed in his back. It’s over. The weight of Coulson’s prison sentence seems to lift off his shoulders, and he feels himself begin to smile. _Maybe this won’t be so bad_.

So imagine his surprise when, after thirty minutes of peace, he hears the distinct sound of a wad of paper being crumpled up. Said paper ball hits him smack on his left cheek and bounces onto his desk. Steve theatrically whispers, “Bull’s-eye,” and Tony kind of wants to scream in frustration. He’s out of patience; he’s reached the end of his very short line.

And he’d stupidly forgotten Steve’s title as Most Stubborn Motherfucker on the Planet. “How old are we, Rogers?” he hisses, turning his head to face Steve, who’s already submerged in his notebook and ignoring him once more.

Sketchbook, Tony amends, upon smoothing out the line-free paper marked with Steve’s impeccable script. 

 _Since you’re already acting like an eight-year old, we might as well do it this way. Tell me what’s wrong, or write it, I don’t care. But neither of us is leaving this room until some middle ground is established, in case that wasn’t made clear. Just talk to me, Tony._  

And those are the key words: middle ground. It dawns upon Tony that the meeting-long time limit was complete bullshit. Coulson and Steve apparently agreed they could end up staying here all weekend, if that’s what it takes for them to reach some semblance of a mutual understanding.

The idea of spending an entire day locked in a room with Rogers is more than enough to make Tony’s resolve snap. 

_He wants to hear “what’s wrong”? I’ll fucking tell him what’s wrong._

Tony sucks in a deep breath, angling his entire body to face Steve, years of stress and frustration rolling off him in waves. “You wanna know that bad, Steve? Huh? Do you?” Steve’s eyes widen, clearly taken aback by Tony’s brash tone, especially in the face of Steve’s patience today. Tony doesn’t care anymore.

“Fine, I’ll tell you why. I’m upset because I’m here, with _you_ , forced to make nice instead of preparing for the next debate competition like I signed up for. And I have to be here with you for ‘as long as it takes,’ which is absolutely killing me. And on top of that, I have to be pleasant, while you’ve been anything but since that first day I – pretty politely, if I remember right – introduced myself to you! How the hell is that fair?” He ignores the flash of hurt that crosses Steve’s face, plowing on. Honestly, it feels good, to finally say everything that had been building inside of him. Who cares if he’s using Steve as a punching bag? This is _Steve_ we’re talking about. He doesn’t have feelings when it comes to Tony aside from shades of hatred. “And god, I’m trying. I’m trying so hard to not let the little things get to me, but—fuck, it’s impossible. Underneath that caring mask you have on right now, I know you don’t give a _fuck_ about me, so don’t even bother, okay? I can’t fucking deal with it.”

Tony’s flushed and breathing hard, but at least he has it all off his chest. He feels better. Right? He does feel better, doesn’t he?

For a split-second Steve looks positively thrown, caught off-guard in a way that gives Tony a thrill in his stomach – some things never change, and Rogers will always have a non-existent poker face. It’s one of the many reasons why Tony gets such a kick out of getting on his nerves. Steve’s reactions, no matter now aggressive or wildly negative, are always undoubtedly genuine. Tony of all people knows how rare that is.

Then he collects himself and nods empathetically, expression friendly and understanding. But Tony sees that it’s all an act, and a fragile one at that. Steve’s normally sky-blue irises are now an electric, intense cerulean.

He’s _pissed_ , mostly. And – something else, edging close to _pained_ , but not quite there.

“Huh,” Steve says with stiff lips. “Good to know.”

That’s all he says. Nothing else. Then, abruptly, he turns back and gives all of his attention to his sketchbook. A couple seconds later, the lead of his pencil snaps from the force of his hand, but Steve doesn’t even twitch. Just stares down at the drawing that’s out of Tony’s line of sight, mouth twisted at the corner.

Tony sighs and picks up his phone. His face pulses from all of the blood circulating through it. Surprisingly, he doesn’t feel better at all. And for some reason, his eyes and throat are stinging, like he has to cry.

“Fuck,” he murmurs quietly.

Steve pretends he doesn’t hear that, too.

Tony’s seen a vast array of expressions cross Steve Rogers’ face in the time he’s known him: annoyed, victorious, superior, angry, happy (if only for fleeting seconds), exhilarated, and occasionally embarrassed. But never, up until this very day, has he ever seen Steve genuinely upset.

His eyes are charged thunderstorms and his knuckles are white against the broken pencil he’s still clutching, frozen in place.

Yeah, sure, okay, maybe Tony had gone a _little_ too far. Maybe.

Tony sighs, slowly turning to him. “Look, Steve—”

Steve cuts him off, the words clipped and sour. “I’m trying to think, Tony.”

Tony feels his shoulders slump. Steve’s not going to make this easy on him, of course he isn’t. The only person on this planet who’s as stubborn as Tony is, is, well, Steve. And Tony knows that Steve’s going to milk this for everything it’s worth. It’s what Tony would do.

What strikes him as most odd is that he actually finds himself caring and he doesn’t know why. He’s always played the part of the ever-bemused cocky bastard, and perhaps that persona is getting the best of him. From the beginning Tony always assumed that Steve was perfectly capable of protecting himself, physically and emotionally. It never occurred to Tony to be concerned. There was never any reason to be. Steve has nerves of steel and the thickest skin imaginable.

And yet now, he can clearly see that something is wrong, and he knows that something is him. As much as Tony had willed himself not to care, he can’t help but feel guilty.  

The tension eventually reaches a loud, ear-splitting roar. It overtakes Tony’s senses, overpowering his brain, and he can’t hear anything outside of his own breath and the awful, painful silence.

 _And it’s all my fucking fault_.

Finally, he can’t take it anymore. “Steve?”

He doesn’t answer. Always so resolute. “Steve,” Tony attempts again, a little louder this time.

Still no response.

_Seriously?_

He takes a deep breath. Steve’s still staring at his sketchbook and broken lead, unperturbed. “STEVE!” Tony yells.

Steve flinches and looks at him this time, momentarily taken aback. “I’m… I’m…” he swallows, willing his mouth to push past his concrete wall of pride and utter the phrase that's been churning in his mind for the past ten minutes, “…sorry, okay? I’m sorry,” he manages to choke out, cringing at how uncertain he sounds.

Steve rolls his eyes, turning back to his drawing. “I can tell.”

Tony swallows. It’s now or never. He blows out a heavy breath and moves one row over, sitting directly on top of Steve’s desk. As soon as he stands up, Steve slams his sketchbook shut and shoves it in the compartment inside the desk, but Tony’s too distracted to think about it. Right now he’s on a mission.

“Seriously,” he says, this time more forcefully, grabbing Steve’s arm and spinning him so they face each other. “I am.” Guarded blue eyes search Tony’s face for any falter in his sincere expression, but he knows Steve won’t find anything. “I went too far. I’m supposed to be trying to prove to Coulson that I can get along with you, and I was just so…” He does a series of rolling hand motions, since he can’t really explain how he felt without negating the entire apology. Nevermind that all of it was true; Tony could dwell on that later. “…that, and, y’know, stressed, and I snapped, and I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. You really didn’t.”

He can’t quite determine if that last part is a lie or not. Thank god he’s ten times better than Rogers at it.

But it doesn’t matter at the moment, because Steve’s expression softens slightly as the tiniest of smiles pulls at his lips. “Alright, alright, enough with the begging,” and the tips of Steve’s ears turn pink. Tony smirks and lets go of his arm, giving him what’s meant to be a friendly shove backwards. “I guess I could forgive you.”

A fraction of the guilt lifts off Tony's shoulders. “On one condition,” Steve amends. 

 _Of course_.

Tony groans, “What?”

Steve’s smile stretches into a shit-eating grin, “You get off this desk before it breaks.” He sounds a little uncomfortable, but it’s an olive branch Tony is more than willing to grab. 

“You calling me fat, Rogers?” He slides off the desk and back to his own. “We can’t all work out twenty-four seven.”

“I’m saying all that booze has to go _somewhere_ ,” Steve throws back. Tony could cry tears of relief. Everything’s okay. _They’re_ okay. Back to being themselves, or at least a more civil version. Throwing insults back and forth at one another, though for now they’re airy, meaningless reminders of their strange but passionate hateship. And even though Tony still resents him deeply, for now that’s okay. They passed the test. That’s all that matters. After the debate competitions they can go back to truly arguing, but here, in this unique new space and situation, Tony knows their barbs are just hollow reminders of their real-relationship.

“I could say the same about you and Thai food.” At the beginning of last year, Steve came to every debate meeting with a steaming bowl of Pad Thai. Coulson let him get away with it at first because Steve didn’t have a lunch period, but eventually the smell became too much. 

Steve sighs wistfully, “Don’t remind me. Haven’t had it in _ages_.” 

An idea comes to Tony then, and it’s so obvious it’s laughable. He just has to gather the nerve for it. “Hey, uh… how about I get you some, and we call it a truce. Until districts. Or whenever.” 

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head, “I was under the impression we already have one. You don’t need to bribe me with food.” But his stomach picks that moment to rumble unceremoniously loudly, and Tony laughs as Steve flushes. 

“Your stomach doesn’t want you to turn down free food,” he points out.

Steve chuckles and stands up, shouldering his backpack. “Since you insist, I’ll accept defeat this time,” he says, and for some reason that startles another laugh out of Tony.

Steve follows him out of room 250, eyes bright. For the first time since the moment Tony met him, seeing him happy doesn’t frustrate or annoy him. And he’s fine with that – fine with being on good terms with Steve, for now. Here in this small classroom, their differences seem minute, insignificant.

Tony catches himself feeling reluctant to leave, because after the district competition in two weeks things will likely be the same as they always are. There's a ticking clock hanging over their heads, a time-bomb of a truce. 

A thought runs through Tony’s head as they shuffle out, and he immediately buries it to where it’ll hopefully never see the light of day:

_Well. This is going to fucking hurt._

-&- 

Steve drives up to the gate surrounding Tony’s estate and rolls down his window at the metal speaker. He’s never actually dealt with an ostentatious gate like this before but he’s seen enough movies to know the gist of it.

“This is Steve Rogers, Tony’s…” Shit, he really should’ve thought this through when he left this morning. In Steve’s defense, his drive was spent in a white-hot rage. He could barely focus on the road, let alone take in the washed-out gray sky, the rising sun a bright, screaming reminder of the inevitably shitty morning laying ahead of him.

All because Tony had bailed on their first Saturday competition prep meeting. They designed it to be a seniors-only morning dedicated to planning for the district debate. Steve pulled in to the empty Shield Diner at 8 am sharp, where Natasha, Clint (who works as a barista there), Sam, Darcy, and Pepper were waiting, notes out and breakfast ordered. He knows Bucky had work, that’s fine, but Tony has no excuse. Each member prepared notes on popular issues seen at the competitions, such as gun control or abortion. And Tony was _supposed_ to be responsible for making sure they had all of their bases covered, and to act as moderator since it was agreed that he and Steve probably shouldn’t work together on a single issue.

That was all before he called Tony’s cell nine times, left a strongly worded message, and left for his house at Clint’s insistence that “Stark needs to learn his lesson, and you’re the only one he’ll listen to, Steve.” Which sounded funny at first, but Steve can kind of see his point.

As much as a part of Steve wants to follow in Tony’s footsteps and forget everything that comes with today – the stress of the competitions, his failures from last year that he has to make up for – he isn’t oblivious to the situation. He knows he can’t run from this. This is an obligation and there’s no way they’ll win if they don’t prepare.

But apparently not everyone is aware as he is. 

“…classmate,” he decides, though the word doesn’t even begin to encapsulate what he and Tony are. “He has, uh, a study group today.”

There’s a crackle and a pause. Steve has a minute to wonder if the gates and their monitoring systems are entirely electronic – he’s heard rumors of Stark building artificial intelligences, but as far as he knows they could be gossip – until he hears a distinctly British voice say, “Mr. Rogers,” when the iron gates part.

The paved driveway extends for at least a quarter mile, lit every few feet with lamps, until the trees clear and Steve finally catches sight of Tony’s… to call it a house would certainly be an understatement. Even _mansion_ doesn’t capture the enormity of the palace in front of him. A marble fountain stands tall in front of an oval driveway, a small courtyard with a bench and trimmed bushes in front of it. The building looks like a timeless old institution, a private college or museum, perhaps. Anything but a _home_. 

Steve parks out front and ascends the stone steps to the heavy-looking front doors, debating whether he should call Tony again or ring the doorbell. It’s quickly decided for him when an elderly man in a suit steps out with his hand extended, a small smile on his lips. “Edwin Jarvis, pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure,” Steve echoes, frozen. With a house this size it only makes sense to have a butler, probably a whole troop of house staff. _Of course_. Of course Tony’s butler, not the person he's ready to unleash his fury on, answers the door. He doesn’t know why he thought this would be easy, that Tony would come out and Steve could grab him and go. No, things are never this simple in Steve Rogers’ world, because everything must be complicated and difficult.

He knows Tony is rich; everybody knows it, at least everyone invited to his renowned parties. For a fleeting moment Steve feels small and out of his depth, a child trapped in an adult’s body. Tony often threatens to buy out the school when club finances don’t go his way and the higher-ups are late with signing their bank deposits. Nobody takes those threats seriously, but Steve’s starting to think he should. 

Now that he really thinks about it, Tony never takes the countless opportunities to rub his wealth in Steve’s face. He regularly flaunts his genius, talent in the bedroom, and other assets, but his surely insane bank account figures never come up in arguments.

He hears a few tortured groans from inside. Jarvis’ lips thin, disapproval and amusement warring on his features. “I’m on strict orders to not let you in,” but he says it with an edge that sounds like he’s inclined to disobey them. Steve likes him already. “He’s upstairs, second door on the left.” Jarvis steps aside and opens the door fully. “Fair warning, he was a little senseless last night, even by his standards.”

Steve shakes his head. He can handle this, whatever the butler is suggesting. “He’s trying to ignore his responsibilities and I’m not going to let him.” _And frankly, neither should you_.

Jarvis just nods, expression tight yet friendly. “That works for me, Mr. Rogers,” he says vaguely, and Steve can barely grasp what he’s implying until Jarvis disappears behind the door. “If you require anything, I’m a shout away.” And with that, he’s gone.

Steve blinks and crosses the threshold. His eyes can’t help but skim over the exquisite upholstery that makes the main hall resemble a five-star hotel, the winding velvet-lined staircase that awaits him. He takes the steps two at a time, pushing past the gnawing doubts and reservations in his head – he’ll be damned if he lets Tony avoid this, skirting right past preparation for this competition because of his superiority complex. Turning left, he marches down the debris-littered hallway quickly, scattering empty beer cans and a couple unconscious bodies in his wake.

Why did he expect anything less?

When he reaches the doors marked “ **OFF LIMITS, unless you want to get blown up** ,” he doesn’t bother knocking and shoves the doors open roughly. They hit the wall with a resounding bang. 

The sight before him is enough to make any self-respecting human want to look away. Tony Stark, man-slut extraordinaire, is squarely situated on top of a boy Steve recognizes to be Peter Parker: a cute, seemingly innocent sophomore in debate club, and Tony seems to be trying to eat his face off. When Peter sees Steve, he lets out a startled yelp, which probably would’ve been _really_ loud had it not been muffled by Tony’s mouth. Tony whips his head around, looking over his shoulder for the intruder that disturbed them. Once he catches wind of what’s going on, he rolls off of Peter, exhaling. If Steve didn’t know better he’d say that Tony looks – relieved? “No, please, come in, I insist,” he deadpans, throwing his head back into the pillows. 

Steve's not going to do this, not today. It was bad enough with Natasha and Christie, but a guy? He knows Tony’s bi, but believing and seeing are two extremely different things. The confirmation makes his stomach twist with something he doesn’t want to classify. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asks, looking Tony dead in the eye. He’s silently praying Tony will come up with some probable, completely outlandish excuse for his behavior so Steve will get to lose it in front of Peter, who looks terrified enough as it is. 

“Didn’t anyone tell you about the birds and the bees? Maybe you’d like a diagram of how,” he gestures between himself and the wiry boy in the sheets, “ _this_ works? If you want, later, I could even walk you through the whole process, just to clear up any questions you might have.” And the bastard winks, a smug expression on his face. 

 _Pig_. Nevermind how Steve finally identifies the rolling in the pit of his gut as _desire_ ; it doesn’t matter, and he forcefully shoves it to the farthest corners of his mind. Tony’s ridiculously attractive, he’s coming to terms with it, but _so what_? He still feels anger bubbling up within him, slowly threatening to spill out of his mouth in the form of threats.

Maybe it’s the expression on Steve’s face or the palpable tension in the air, but Peter’s begun shaking. Steve almost feels bad for him, the impressionable victim who didn’t know any better. _Almost_. “Peter, do you think you could give us a minute?” asks Steve. The boy in question gulps, nodding quietly before throwing off the covers and scuttling out the door, not even bothering to put on any clothes over his red and blue boxers. 

Tony scoffs, waiting until the double doors shut before addressing Steve. “Has anyone told you what a giant cockblock you are, Rogers, or am I just special?”

Steve’s jaw clenches. “Has anyone ever told you what a giant pain in the ass you are, Stark?” Stalking over to the largest dresser he’s ever seen and throwing the drawers open, he searches the contents for a shirt. Tony sits up suddenly and looks a little nauseous because of it. _Good_.

“What the fuck are you—”

Steve wheels around, a purple AC/DC shirt in hand. “What day is it today, Tony?” He sniffs the shirt after noticing a few stains. _Oh god._ Face scrunching up, he throws it over his shoulder and onto the carpet, waiting for a response.

An amused expression crosses Tony’s face. He cocks a defiant eyebrow. “Saturday, it’s definitely Saturday.” 

Never in Steve’s entire life has he met someone who enjoys angering people so much. Tony finds pleasure in it. Probably gets off on it, too. His sole purpose in life, it seems, is to piss Steve off as much as possible. And so far he’s done a damn good job, with the sole exception of their truce, which is technically still in place.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any plans today, would you?” Steve asks, feigning a nonchalant, indifferent tone as he begins digging through the drawers again. 

Tony folds his hands behind his head, laying back into the mattress with a relaxed sigh. “Nope, I’m free all day.” He’s baiting; Steve can feel it in his voice and read it in his words. He’s waiting for Steve to snap, but he’s not going to give in.

“Oh, that’s perfect,” Steve picks up a grey v-neck and a pair of black jeans that look relatively clean. 

“Is it?” 

“Yep.” He tosses the clothes to Tony. “Put these on. We’re going out.”

Tony waves at them dismissively, “I don’t need clothes.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying the view, Rogers,” he replies, slinking his hands down his bare torso and waggling his eyebrows.

Steve has to bite back a groan – that’s the problem right now, and it’s probably written all over his traitorously transparent face. “Tony, c’mon.” The more naked of the two grins, victorious. Steve knows he’s let Tony win. He’s broken character, he’s given up. But it’s so early, he’s so tired, and so completely not in the mood to deal with Tony. Apparently Clint had been wrong. Steve is the wrong man for the job, at least right now.

“Losing stamina already?” Tony winks, and Steve grimaces. “Then again, what would _you_ know about stamina?” He’s watching Steve with an unnerving intensity, waiting for him to break and loser his temper. But Steve realizes that he isn’t pissed, frustrated, or hurt – at least, not anymore. The thing is, he expects this raunchiness from Tony. It’s gotten old. He’s not shocked or offended, not in the least. This is just who Tony is, and nothing’s ever going to change that. 

“Put the clothes on, Tony,” Steve says calmly, nodding at the garments lying at the foot of his king-sized bed. 

“And what are you going to do if I don’t?” he replies, smirk widening into an all-out grin.

“Natasha will rip you a new one—” Steve begins coolly, but Tony cuts him off, sitting up on his elbows. The blanket pooling around his waist slides a few inches, revealing a pair of red skintight boxer-briefs—

  _Jesus Christ, Steve. Get a fucking grip of yourself. You’re better than Tony Stark when it comes to this, you will die before you become a notch in his bedpost—_

“I didn’t ask what Natasha’s going to do. I asked what you’re going to do,” he says, challenge lacing his tone. 

He’s daring Steve to take action, thinking he’s calling Steve’s bluff, that he’s all talk. But Steve’s been doing this a while. He knows where to take this. Now it’s his turn to smirk, raising his voice threateningly. “You know that guy out there, standing in his underwear, waiting for you?” He jabs a finger at the doors and Tony’s eyes sparkle.

“Yeah, Patrick.” 

“Peter, Tony. His name is Peter.”

Tony shrugs disinterestedly, like his name is the least important thing in the world. And Steve supposes to him, it is. Too soon Peter will become another vague recollection, a story to tell, and Steve’s floundering resolve to never, ever join that group of people strengthens tenfold. “I knew it started with a P, didn’t I?”

Steve presses on, ignoring his attitude. “Well, if you don’t get up and dressed in the next two minutes, I’m going to go out there and give him your number.”

The smirk drops off Tony’s face instantly, and Steve can’t help but grin triumphantly.

Tony: 0  
Steve: 1

There’s one thing that Tony Stark never does, and that’s commitment. He doesn’t do exclusive relationships, he doesn’t do open relationships, he doesn’t even do friends-with-benefits. He wants completely string-free sexual encounters and he’s perfected the art of attaining them. And he knows that if Steve gives Peter his number, all of the groundwork he’d carefully laid last night, all of the timed words and actions, would tumble down around him and everything would be ruined. 

Violent caramel eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Steve chuckles, as low and menacing as he can muster. “You want to try me, Stark?” 

“Come on,” he pleads, tone shifting from smug to desperate, the second time Steve’s ever heard his voice with this inflection. “We can just blow off this whole practice thing. We have the strongest players and we prepare every Friday, anyway. There’s no reason to get up at the asscrack of dawn to go over what we already know. It’s a win-win. You can have the day to yourself, and I can enjoy some quality time with Percy—”

“Peter.” 

“Whatever, that’s beside the point.” Tony is honest-to-god pouting. Steve honestly never thought he’d live to see the day, and it makes his brain go a little fuzzy. 

“And what’s your point, Tony?”

“The point is, you don’t have to do this.”

Steve wonders what he has to do to flip the switch between Nice Tony and Asshole Tony. Now that he knows the former actually exists, it’s become more and more difficult to tolerate his insolence when Steve knows he can talk it out like a mature human being. 

“Of course we do. Now get up, and get your damn clothes on so we can go,” he finishes, turning and heading towards the door. “Oh, and make sure to bring your wallet. You’re paying for breakfast.”

Tony groans loudly, rolling out of bed and picking up the clothes. “Steve Rogers, I am officially declaring you the World’s Biggest Bitch.”

“You’ve finally decided to give up your crown?” Steve asks dryly as he shuts the door. Through the wood he hears Tony bark out a laugh.

As he approaches the stairs, satisfaction thrumming through his mind, he feels a bony hand grab his arm and spin him around. It’s Peter, still looking petrified yet oddly determined.

“Look,” he says quietly, eyes fixed on his bare feet, “I’m, uh – really, _really_ sorry, okay?”

Steve’s brow crinkles with confusion. Why is Peter apologizing to _him_? He doesn’t care what the guy does, he’s just here to drag Tony’s lazy ass out of bed.

“Um, I—” 

“I didn’t know,” Peter pleads, voice rising and pace quickening, his brown doe eyes imploring Steve to forgive him. For what, Steve doesn’t know, but the poor kid sure as hell looks sorry about it. “You have to believe me, Steve. I mean, I already knew you guys had, like, tension—” 

“ _What?_ ”

“—but he said he was single. He _promised_ he was. I just—” he sighs, running a hand along his tanned arm, “I feel so awful about it, y’know?” 

Steve has _no_ idea what’s going on. He tries to wrap his mind around what Peter’s saying, the meaning behind his words, but all he can hear is nonsense. “Um. It’s okay?”

Peter visibly deflates with relief. “Good.” He awkwardly rubs Steve’s bicep and pats it, giving Steve a watery smile before turning to walk down the stairs. Then he stops, turning around. “Do me a favor? Don’t let this get between you two. He’s crazy about you.” And with that, he lopes slowly down the stairs in nothing but his boxers. 

Steve’s frowns, still slow and exhausted, until the dots slowly begin to connect in his mind.

_Good god. He couldn’t possibly mean…_

He whips back around. “Hey, wait! He’s not my boyfriend!” he calls indignantly, just as the front door slams behind Peter.

-&-

“Here are the lovebirds!” Clint greets Steve and Tony when they approach the counter twenty minutes later. As usual, the aroma in the diner is overpoweringly homey and the place bustles with its regulars. The steady buzz of background conversation, the clatter of silverware, and shouted orders from the kitchen seem to wrap themselves around Tony, holding him close like a blanket. He inhales softly, letting the warm smells seep into his hungover pores. Suddenly, his day doesn’t feel like it’s going to be so awful. “What can I get you two?” 

“I’ll have three cappuccinos, with a shot of espresso in each,” Steve says. Tony’s eyes, previously half-shut, fly open. He turns to Steve incredulously. 

“For you and who and who?”

“For me and me and me,” he replies, not bothering to look back at Tony. Right, he’s still mad. The brief drive was spent listening to Steve’s not-quite-shitty Aerosmith CD in otherwise silence. Annoyance radiated off of big, blonde, and beefy in waves, but that wasn’t new. The thing that had Tony baffled was the way Steve would sneak glances at him when he thought Tony was staring out the window. And the few times Steve opened his mouth to say something, only to shut it seconds later.

Well, he’s probably only avoiding another argument. They technically still have a cease-fire going on.

“I’ll have three orders of Irish coffee,” Tony adds.

Clint eyeballs the two of them from behind the chrome counter. “You two do realize these things called _refills_ exist, right? Go away, I’ll bring you your coffee. Non-Irish. A pissed off team awaits,” he waves a lazy hand in the direction of their usual corner. 

“I’m adding a Hangover Cure with extra bacon to that,” Tony stalls. He figures they’re not actually going to kill him, but the yelling will definitely exacerbate his headache.

The bandaged barista just gives him a dead look. “I’m going to assume that you really like pancakes wrapped with eggs and bacon and are not, in any way, hungover.”

“Nope, totally functional and ready to rumble,” Tony chirps, throwing an elbow onto the countertop for good measure. Clint just sighs, an amused twist to his lips. 

“Whatever, man. Not mopping up the floor when Tasha brains you.”

“Thanks for that image, Clint,” Steve says dryly, grabbing Tony by the arm he’s leaning on and all but dragging him to their booth. Tony protests through babbling but doesn’t bother wrenching his arm free from Steve’s grip.

For one, it’s getting harder and harder to deny his attraction to his nemesis. It’s attraction, right? Lust? Steve’s a physical work of art, and as annoying as he may be, he isn’t afraid to call out Tony’s shit.

Not to mention that Tony’s pretty sure this is the first time Steve’s physically touched him in any way, which is… yeah, no, he needs to think about something else _right now_.

He’s dumped in their booth, thankfully next to non-violent Sam, and leans his head against the cushioned red seat. Pages and pages of coffee-stained notes are spread across the table. Darcy’s manning the fact-checking laptop.

“—and Darcy has our rebuttal shit ready… Tony,” Sam sighs, mid-sentence. “Well. Guess I’m just glad you and Steve got back in one piece.”

Tony shrugs, aiming for sheepish and failing outstandingly. “Better late than never, fellas. Not my fault Rogers is allergic to going over the speed limit.”

“Not his fault you’re allergic to waking up before eleven,” Nat points out, less angrily than Tony thought she would. He probably has the coffee to thank.

“I know you guys can’t get anything done without me—” 

“Maybe I should’ve left you with Peter,” Steve says, plucking a hash brown from Pepper’s plate. Said redhead’s eyes snap from her phone up to Tony’s at the mention. Tony wilts in the face of her frustration.

“Really, Tony?” she asks, long-suffering. Her eyes betray that she remembers his drunken rambles from the other night, when he’d gone on about Steve’s stupid muscles and jawline and insufferably full lips—

“Don’t judge, Pep, he was cute,” Tony holds up his hands, kicking his feet up onto her knees under the table. Her glare remains withering.

Clint soon arrives with their food, coffee, and a check. “Separate or together?”

“Separ—”

“Together,” Steve cuts him off.

Tony shoots him a befuddled look and Steve smiles his best I’m-so-innocent smile. “I wasn’t kidding about you paying for breakfast.” 

“Go fuck yourself,” says Tony, but there’s no venom behind it. Everyone stares as he pulls out his wallet and forks over the cash. Steve grins triumphantly. 

Later, when they’re all full of breakfast and in the midst of fleshing out their stance on torture, Tony’s phone buzzes. He wrestles it out of his tight pants – that Steve picked, god, he’s never forgetting this – and reads the text from Pepper.

 **We’re talking about this later.**  

Tony glances at her from across the table, one delicate eyebrow arched. He texts back, **don’t know what you’re talking about** and puts his phone on silent, shoving it back into his pocket.

Because avoiding this rapidly changing and hard-to-navigate thing will definitely help. That’s always worked out well for him in the past.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *plays It's Been A Long, Long Time* 
> 
> As promised to a few loyal commenters, here's chapter 3! Featuring way more Bucky, Pepper, Bruce (who's been neglected up until now), drunken shenanigans, and frozen waffles. Also: dumb boys having feelings. 
> 
> I don't want to say anything definite, but this story _will_ be finished. I have the entire thing plotted out and it's just a matter of writing it in bursts, haha. Come party with me on [tumblr](http://starkerized.tumblr.com/tagged/salt_skin), too; if you have ideas for future chapters or critiques/stevetony feelings, I'd love to hear them!

“Rogers.”

“Here,” says the blond from the back row of the study hall classroom, glancing up from his sketchbook. Mr. Howlett makes eye contact – honestly, Steve doesn’t understand how the English teacher sees through those mammoth, bushy eyebrows – and grunts, finishing roll call.

There are a thousand and one things he  _should_  be doing, like working on his senior portfolio in the art room, or any of the dozens of homework assignments he has due that week. Anyone who says senior year is a cakewalk is lying through their teeth.

Or they could not be in all advanced classes like Steve is, and not a massive overachiever to boot. Yesterday he had school, work, went to the gym, did homework, and stayed up til midnight baking cupcakes and brownies for today’s Gay-Straight Alliance bake sale. He’s taking a short, well-deserved break.

Maybe not  _entirely_  deserved. He looks down at the idle doodle on the corner of the page that had practically formed on its own. His heart falls into his stomach with a retching swoop, brain flooding with static and self-loathing.

Staring back at him is a cartoonish pen-and-ink rendition of Tony, signature smirk in place. The features are slightly exaggerated, namely his wide brown eyes and messy, slicked-back hair, but not enough to be considered a caricature.

He wishes it were a caricature, with angry speech bubbles and a balloon-sized skull to match his ego. That could be justified, at least. This is… something else, undeniably.

Another part of him fiercely wishes that things between them hadn’t changed last week when they were forced to come to a truce. They could just be the way they always were, entirely sick of the others’ existence and going out of their respective ways to prove it. Tony would nick his keys and other belongings, taunt him at debate, and things would be  _simple_. Two flies constantly buzzing around the other, ever-present and undeniably annoying.

Now things aren’t nearly as easy to quantify. What Tony had said at their meeting runs circles around Steve’s mind, no matter how much he tries to distract himself:  _I have to be pleasant, while you’ve been anything but since that first day I – pretty politely, if I remember right – introduced myself to you! How the hell is that fair?_

Because it’s the brutal truth, now that he takes the time to really recall their first meeting. Steve was definitely the one who instigated things between them. Freshman Tony had held his hand out, beaming, mouth running a thousand miles per hour as usual, but definitely in greeting.

And Steve brushed his hand off and asked  _what gives you the right to act so superior and boss people in the club around_ , even though Tony hadn’t, really. He just was his usual self except even less mature and more argumentative. But combined with his sleazy reputation, moronic freshman Steve had no choice but to instantly dislike him and make that fact widely known.

He puts his forehead down against the desk and sighs, the sound muffled by his sketchbook against his face.  _Christ, Steve, you’re kind of a fucking idiot._  And Stark even apologized for his honest outburst, something Steve never thought he’d live to see.

Somewhere deep down, Steve knows he needs to get on returning the favor. But of course, none of this changes the fact that Tony is obnoxious and impossible to tolerate on his best days. He doubts it’ll come up again with the way their current truce is holding up well enough for them to coexist at debate meetings.

Still. There’s a tiny seed of uncertainty planted in his heart, and Steve hates being anything less than completely sure of himself.

“Jesus Christ, buddy,” a familiar voice says from above him. There’s the squeal of chair legs on linoleum tiles. Steve turns onto his cheek, frowning. Bucky’s leaning on his chair, the back legs balanced precariously while the front two stick half a foot in the air. Combat boots plop onto the desk in front of him with a grace Steve has always envied. “You look like a fucking wreck.”

“One step closer to your style,” Steve says. Bucky’s denim jacket resembles scraps of blue fabric held together by safety pins more than an actual article of clothing. Steve gets chilly just looking at him and it’s only October. His best friend’s wide mouth stretches into a grin, easy. They hardly go a week without teasing each other about their fashion sense. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in…”

“Physics,” Bucky supplies before tilting his head and taking in the way Steve’s folded himself over his sketchbook. Steve feels a pang of guilt at Bucky’s confused expression – he always shows Bucky his art, his best friend doubles as his biggest fan – but still can’t bring himself to sit up. “It’s nothing we haven’t learned, so I thought, why waste my time.”

“Clearly.” Steve eyes Mr. Howlett at the front of the room, who hasn’t looked up from his computer. He probably didn’t hear Bucky come in over the buzz of chatter, and he’s not the kind of teacher to particularly care. Steve doesn’t get on Bucky’s case about skipping class as much as he used to. His grades are fine and he’s learned to trust Bucky’s judgment. Plus Steve’s not his parent, in spite of how Bucky likes to say otherwise.

Bucky’s brow crinkles. Steve doesn’t trust that look. “But it feels like I’m wasting yours. When’d you sleep?” asks Bucky.

“Uh… one? I don’t know. There’s a GSA bake sale—”

“Oh my god, Steve. The entire club will bake for it. You don’t have to make, what, a hundred muffins. You remember last time—”

“I can’t let my mom’s brownie recipe go to waste,” Steve protests weakly. Bucky hums.

“I see your point. I think you got Thor addicted.”

“I got Jane addicted,” he corrects, smiling at the memory. “He buys out the entire table for her.”

Bucky grins. “There’s the smile! You’re not dead inside today, after all.”

“Leave me alone,” Steve momentarily forgets himself and sits up fully. His company’s grey eyes instantly snap to the drawing revealed on the page.

 _Fuck. FuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK._  Steve freezes, paralyzed before he all but lunges for the sketchbook and clutches it to his chest. He tries to ignore the burning look Bucky sends him, equal parts concerned and pitying. He can’t stand it.

“What… what was that, Steve,” Bucky says, voice strangled. Steve doesn’t reply because it’s pretty fuckin’ obvious, and it’d be great if a pit could choose this moment to open in the floor and swallow him whole. 

He supposes if anyone has to see that piece of humiliation, he’s a little glad it’s Bucky. Mostly, though, he wants to die on the spot.

His best friend straightens, collecting himself quickly and easing into it with that fluid way he has. “Like, first I hear about how you willingly went to his house to drag his ass to the meeting on Saturday, Pepper says you’re going on Pad Thai dates, and now you’re doodling him like a…” Thankfully, Bucky doesn’t complete the sentence. Steve’s face is already suffused with humiliation; he hears  _lovesick teenager_ , regardless. Bucky leans forward conspiratorially, eyes dancing. “Can’t lie and say I’m not glad you’re finally catching onto your feelings, pal. It was getting out of hand. Should I give him the shovel talk?”

“Fuck, just—stop talking,” Steve buries his face in his hands because there will never be a time when he wants to have this conversation.

Bucky bats a hand flippantly. “I mean, you’re one leap away from writing Steve Rogers-Stark in the margins of your diary—”

“I mean it, Buck, I’ll punch you in the face right here and now—”

“—Does he even know?”

And that brings Steve up short. Lowering his hands, he peeks at Bucky warily. “Know what?”

“Y’know,” the brunet makes a broad sweep at his sketch, “That. How he pisses you off more than any other human being, but you’ve also wanted to bang his brains out for god knows how long—”

“Will you  _stop_ ,” he hisses, sweeping his gaze across the classroom to check that no one overheard. Luckily, everyone is absorbed in their own conversations or has headphones on. “I’m serious, Buck, I don’t want to talk about it.” 

And he  _really_  doesn’t want to tell Bucky that his assumption is partly true. It’s a much more recent development. In his defense, anyone who’s seen as much naked Tony in the past few weeks as he has would feel the exact same way.

Right?

Bucky agitatedly drums his fingers against the desk but doesn’t push the subject. “Alright, I get it, I’m being the stick in the mud by taking this too seriously. You still have a thing for Sharon, right?” His lips quirk up and Steve exhales in relief. “Slick of you, asking if you could draw her for an art project. ‘The nude form is great anatomy practice’ my ass. Can’t believe that shit worked. I’m switching into art, you guys have all the fun—” 

“Shut up, jerk.” Steve loves Bucky so damn much. There’s no way his best friend missed the sheer panic in his eyes when he slammed the sketchbook shut. Tactful isn’t a word Steve would usually use to describe Bucky, but he knows everything there is to know about wrangling Steve Rogers – including when to push and when to change the subject.

“Hey, there’s an idea. Ask Tony if you can draw him in his birthday suit,” Bucky waggles his eyebrows. Steve’s rush of fondness for him burns out.  _When to shut_  up for a few seconds, at least. “If last week in the showers was anything to go by, he’s packing serious heat—”

“I fucking hate you,” says Steve flatly.

“You love me,” Bucky says. Steve doesn’t bother denying it. His eyes drop onto the plastic shopping bags at Steve’s feet. “So, about those brownies…” 

-&-

The sound of his cell phone vibrating against the metal table grates on Tony’s ears. He curses and puts down the blowtorch, wipes grease-stained hands on jeans that are already more oily black than denim.

**Be there in 5 with a game plan. Turn down the music, will you? I like having my hearing.**

**Spoilsport** , Tony texts Pepper, then proceeds to conveniently lose his phone to the clutter on his workbench. Suicidal Tendencies continues blasting at top volume, making the surface shake with the pounding of the bass.

What feels like seconds later, one of his garage doors open and his music volume drops. “I can’t focus without it, Pep, trying to solder together a working prototype here—” 

“Not anymore, you’re not,” Pepper says briskly, heels clacking on bare concrete as she carefully avoids holes where he’s blown the flooring open and ripped out wires. The garage wasn’t his top choice of places to set up shop, but it’s served him dutifully so far. Plus it happens to be on the opposite side of the mansion as his father’s own labs. She stops right in front of his workbench and drops an enormously thick binder on it with a loud  _thunk_. “Game plan, remember?” Her eyebrows fly up at the sight of him, singed and dirty after thirty straight hours in the workshop. She should really be used to it by now, but Tony knows Pepper’s practical sensibilities will never cease to be offended by his filth. Honestly, he’d be disappointed if things were any different.

She knocks him on the head. “Gloves. Goggles. An actual shirt that’s more fabric than holes. Do any of these things sound like they might be useful at some point?”

“Nope,” Tony says cheerfully, grabbing tongs and plopping red-hot metal into the cooling bath. Using his jeans as a rag only makes his hands dirtier at this point, so he snatches up an old towel. “What’s that you were saying about a game plan?”

“Districts. Which are in exactly one week, in case you forgot.”

“I didn’t,” Tony lies, eyeing the gargantuan binder distrustfully. “You ever think about storing your notes on the Cloud? It’ll do you wonders, really, I’ll set you up and we’ll save a few forests.”

Pepper drops onto one of his spinny chairs. “You know how I feel about having physical copies.”

“I know, it goes hand-in-hand with your office supply fetish.” Tony plants his ass in the other office chair and wheeling his way over. 

She rolls her eyes, “Shut up. I like buying pens and notebooks. It’s more of a—” 

“Collection, of course,” Tony snickers. 

“You want to talk about being materialistic, Tony?” Pepper asks pointedly, glancing at their surroundings. Three gleaming motorcycles line the wall next to his precious R8 and Bentley. The rest of the concrete box of a room is filled with boxes of spare parts, metalworking tools, long steel tables, and a desk with three computer monitors on it. Blueprints are haphazardly tacked onto walls above a crash couch. The ceiling has more than a few ventilation ducts interspersed among the lights, but the garage still manages to stink of kerosene and unwashed hair. Pepper’s gaze returns to him. “It’s been awhile since I’ve caught you in here. Drowning your sorrows in sex and alcohol is a little cliché, I almost missed the inventing frenzies.”

“I liked you better when you were trying to get me into a committed relationship,” Tony sighs and immediately regrets it because Pepper laughs in his face.

“You’ve somehow managed to do that yourself.” She makes a vague sort of wave towards the speakers. “You listen to Suicidal Tendencies when you fight with Steve. Ten bucks says this entire playlist is them. Just because you’re too chicken shit to make a move…”

Tony raises an eyebrow at her and she raises one right back, like she can read his mind. At this point he wouldn’t really be surprised if she could. She noticed, of course she noticed what he’s trying to run from, she’s  _Pepper_. “Yeah, well, you know tinkering will always be my biggest vice.” He flips the white binder open and runs a calloused thumb down the color-coded tab dividers. “So about that plan, I was totally thinking—” 

“He’s hotter than the sun’s surface and has the body of a god, according to you. Ringing any bells?” Pepper asks over Tony’s bullshit, unruffled. 

 _Are they really having this conversation now?_  He voices that sentiment and the redhead shrugs. “We’ve been holding it off for a couple weeks.”

“I don’t need a babysitter, or a matchmaker,” Tony snaps, annoyance boiling his blood. “You know feelings aren’t my thing. Why are we even talking about this, there are  _important things_  to discuss.”

Her lips twitch, probably with the effort of holding back a laugh. “Sure, Tony. Like this has nothing to do with you trying to smother your crush.”

Tony loads as much contempt into a single groan as he possibly can. “Not you too! You’re all like fucking broken records, I swear.” He’d been hoping Pepper would be the one to spare him this agonizing teasing. Forget that his heart speeds up at the mere labeling of Steve as his crush – no, that’s irrelevant, and what the fuck.  _It somehow totally is._

He shoves the onslaught of realization back down with a nauseated feeling. All the evidence is there and he’s been too stupid to put the pieces together. Steve’s still a complete dick to him ninety percent of the time, Thai and diner meetings not withstanding. A crush? No, his last “crush” was on Bruce Banner in the sixth grade. 

This is, he doesn’t know what the hell this is. Half complicated desire, half urge to tear down Steve’s pompous self with a barrage of insults. Nothing’s changed there, except the knowledge that Steve would shove him away with disgust and pity if he ever found out about Tony’s…  _weakness_  for him, is excruciating. And humiliating. And—

 _Oh, fuck me._  Tony’s trying very, very hard to not freak out right now.

Pepper’s lips purse at the carefully neutral expression plastered on his face but says nothing. Finally, when he’s almost done panicking, she says knowingly, “So it turns out these broken records have actually been pretty insightful.”  _Your secret feelings are safe with me,_   _Tony_. 

He swallows back a default Stark response because she’s so right and more importantly, when is she not right about everything. He’d put Pepper in charge of every aspect of his life if she didn’t already have the packed schedule of a future Fortune 500 CEO.

Tony looks away. “So you’re having me take x debates, mostly military, policy, and economics-related, while Steve spearheads social issues. You gave him all the fun ones, Potts, I’m wounded.”

Pepper rolls closer and flips to the back of the binder. “You can get away with using mostly hard logic, your specialty. He can’t always do that. His topics are more controversial and need a lighter touch.” 

“So you gave them to  _Steve_ ,” he says disbelievingly. “The guy who almost socked some poor bastard in the face and got us disqualified last year.” Tony still hasn’t let that go. Though to Steve’s credit, he’s clearly been making progress on reining in his temper ever since. Tony’s the only real problem area as far as Steve’s attitude goes, and Tony tells himself that he likes it that way.

“So? Nobody does social issues like Steve. He’s passionate and empathetic.” Pepper shrugs.

“And I’m not?!”

She gives him a dead look while popping open the binder. “Right, I forgot at how good you are at emphasizing with the opposite perspective.”

“I can understand the opposite side just fine, and even use their viewpoint against them. Isn’t that what this shindig is all about?”

Pepper snorts, her face all exasperation. “At this point I don’t even know which shindig you’re talking about.” Tony’s about to deflect but she continues, “Either way. How’s that strategy working out for you?”

“Fucking wonderfully, thank you very much.” He picks up a pen from nearby and jabs it at her for emphasis. Pepper dodges it by wheeling out of the way.

“Good to hear. Now, lets see what tactics we can get down.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and that’s when Tony knows she means business.

-&-

 _We won, of course we won, but at what cost?_  is the only thought running through Steve's mind as he does laps around the neighborhood.

Later that night, he jabs the key into his lock roughly, twisting his hand until he hears the familiar  _click_  and grabs the handle, swinging the door open. Physically, he couldn’t be more alert and awake 9 PM on a Saturday. Running for two hours with no destination in mind does that to him. 

His mental and emotional states are an  _entirely_  different story. After working out failed to distract his overactive mind, on top of how the district competition just went down today, his brain feels like mush and in desperate need of a break.

Steve puts down his workout bag by the threshold. He’ll worry about laundry and facing the world tomorrow. Right now his only plan is going up to his bed and maybe never emerging. Then he stops short, sweat-sticky skin going cold. “Uh… hi?”

“Toldja he’d be working out,” Bucky’s voice says. 

“Oh, hey, Steve,” Natasha says from her place on his couch with a bottle of vodka in her hand, casual as anything. Upon flicking on a wall switch, more of Steve’s friends become illuminated in his living room.

“S’bout time. Nice of you to join us,” mumbles Sam, voice muffled by the clear cup of mysterious violet-colored liquid attached to his mouth.

“What are you doing—” 

“Shhh,” Bucky shushes Steve insistently, putting a finger to his lips. “We’re pre-gaming. Your mom thinks we’re playing board games and hopes you’ll have fun.”

Steve shoots an accusatory glance at him, then redirects it at Darcy, who’s sitting on the floor and handing off the vodka to Natasha again. She lolls her head towards Steve’s general direction, not quite shamefaced enough for the occasion. “Surprise?” she attempts lamely.

“Pre-gaming,” Steve repeats slowly, already putting the pieces together. They knew the last thing he’d want to do tonight is celebrate, so  _of course_  they brought the party to him. The need to kick them all out so he can have some alone time is suddenly washed away by affectionate annoyance, tension unwinding. 

“Say,” he hears Tony call from his dark kitchen, “is that a new cologne you’re trying out, Steve? I can smell you from here, it’s very nice. What’s it called, rotting horse carcass?”

Emphasis on ‘annoyance’, then.

Steve can hear the sounds of Tony rummaging feverishly through his freezer, pulling out all of the ice cream containers in sight. “I don’t know actually, I borrowed it from you.”

Sam, Darcy, and Bucky collectively ‘oooooh’ from the living room. “That’s no way to treat a guest in your home, Steve,” Tony says, returning from his forage in the freezer with Steve’s last container of Ben and Jerry’s.

Somehow that of all things is the last straw: seeing Tony devour his last pint of triple caramel chunk. Steve’s brain is already overworked, jam-packed with the day’s events that he firmly doesn’t want to think about, and the team’s presence right now only serves as a miserable reminder. He takes a deep breath and narrows in on the things he’s willing to process. “How the hell did you even get in here?” he demands, crossing his arms. 

“Oh, please,” Natasha waves a dismissive hand. “We don’t need keys.” 

“Yeah, your lock is like, every burglar’s dream,” interjects Tony from aside. “Just a few seconds of coaxing with a bobby pin, and—” 

“Bam! Opens like a charm,” Darcy finishes, taking another swig.

“It’s actually pretty convenient,” Sam warbles from the inside of his empty cup.

“Fantastic.” Steve runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “So, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“We’re here to celebrate, motherfucka! We won!” shouts Darcy.

Steve’s eyes narrow. “Guys—”

“Oh come on, don’t be modest.” Sam pulls a can of grape soda from underneath the coffee table and adds a hefty amount of vodka to it. Mystery solved. “You killed it! Those facts you had about prisons and capital punishment had me  _stunned_. Stunned, I tell you. We were all trying to play it cool but you gotta know that was some impressive shit, man.”

“What Sam’s trying to say is that we deserve to celebrate, no matter how close the victory was, get over your angst, Steve,” says Natasha.

Steve clamps his lips shut, because as much as he’d love to accept that, it’s just not that simple. They were all there six hours ago, they saw how Steve blanked on the  _tiebreaker_  rebuttal. They watched on while Steve spluttered and Tony of all people saved his ass with the finest analysis on how the death penalty is an irrevocable mistake, preaching about forgiveness and common human decency like he was born to do it.

If only he could put his money where his mouth is. 

Darcy’s wistful voice brings Steve back to reality. “So we rushed straight over after the competition, like the honorable club we are, booze in hand, to honor our legendary performance. Last-minute tiebreaker and all. And we can’t do that without our fearless leader.” 

Steve feels the corners of his lips turn up into a slight smile. “That’s very… uh, thoughtful of you, Darce. But you know I don’t like drinking.”

“I know, so we decided that if you weren’t going to drink to our success, which is totally lame, by the way, we’d do it for you,” Darcy says triumphantly. “I’m selfless like that.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “Let me get this straight. You’re going to get drunk—”

“Totally shitfaced,” Tony affirms mid-bite.

“ _For_  me? In my own house?”

Tony cackles, clearly more than a few drinks deep. “That’s where you’re wrong, the night’s still young. There’s a party going at my place.” He grabs Steve’s keys from off its hook and tosses them to him, as Steve can only catch them and watch on warily. “You’re driving.”  

Glancing around the room at large, Natasha’s letting Bucky play with her hair while Sam smiles at his phone. Probably another cat vine. “I don’t think anyone here’s in the mood to party,” Steve says in what he hopes is a firm, resolute voice. Instead he just sounds tired and worn down – which he frankly is.

Tony seizes the opportunity dangled in front of him and steps behind the couch, hauling Sam up by his armpits. “Nope, it’s the plan,  _we stick to the plan_ , remember!” he exclaims mockingly, throwing back the phrase Steve pounds into everyone’s brains during preparation meetings a million times.

Sam and Darcy and Bucky make assenting sounds. Traitors, all of them. Natasha just rolls to her feet, giving Steve the stink eye. “You’re driving us, Rogers. Clint and I are tag-teaming Thor and Jane at pong in an hour.”

“We better not be late,” Tony hums thoughtfully.

“You just want to get more drunk,” Steve accuses, but can already feel the remainder of his resistance crumbling. He can drop them off, maybe hang out for a little bit, come home before midnight. They aren’t teasing him about his enormous slip-up at Districts, not even Tony, which is entirely new and suspicious. Bucky’s always telling him that he needs to be less brutally hard on himself. Maybe Steve should start listening.

“Fuck you, I’m excruciatingly sober,” says Tony. Bucky topples to his feet while Darcy jumps on Sam’s back for a piggy back ride out the front door.

“Yes, because I’d be so disappointed if you finally decided to stop beating the shit out of your liver,” sighs Steve petulantly. He hears Natasha call shotgun and watches the rest clamor into the flatbed of his truck, a little astonished by the turn of events the day has taken. He can’t deal with any of it, the good or the bad, the confusing or the clear. It’s all beginning to seem like a very, very weird acid trip; easier for everyone involved to just give up and go along for the ride. 

Two hours later he severely regrets his moment of weakness and leaving the comfort of his home at all. There are reasons as to why he rarely goes to parties and is usually the designated driver, and having strangers vomit on his shoes is one of them.

“Sorry, shit— sorry!” the blond with an unfortunate bleach job mutters, tripping over Steve, who exhales loudly and makes his way to the kitchen. Not to pour himself a helping of Tony’s endless supply of alcohol, but to free himself from the madhouse that is Stark manor on a Saturday night. The enormous space somehow seems smaller when it’s packed with dozens of people. Steve’s lucky enough to have seen the aftermath, though, and he avoids the more crowded rooms (where his fellow debate club members are playing a drinking game to a Tarantino movie) like the plague.

At least the music’s somewhat muted here. A frozen waffle whizzes past his face, followed by a drunken giggle and the distinct sound of a very heavy object clattering to the floor. Steve’s felt this uncomfortable and out-of-place exactly two other times: when he tried out for the football team as a scrawny freshman, and that time he tried to ask Peggy out last year. After two hours of trying to socialize and distract himself, he suddenly realizes that Tony’s house is the exact  _wrong_  place to be trying to decompress from an exhausting day. His blood pressure’s already going through the roof and he can feel a headache coming on from the loud, thumping music. 

The urge to drive home is overwhelming, but the knowledge that he’s the only sober person in the building – besides Jarvis and the staff, probably – keeps him rooted in place. He’s there to make sure everyone passes out safely and doesn’t try anything stupid, like drive or jump from the fourth story. He’s heard too many tragic stories from Bucky and health class to not have a sense of responsibility about these things.

That doesn’t mean he has to enjoy it, though. Heading over to the fridge, he steps over a long-since passed out classmate and pulls out a liter of Mountain Dew, wincing at the sound of someone unzipping the fly of their pants and wolf-whistling. Steve grabs a straw and barely side-steps a very, very minimally-clothed Thor Odinson as he flings another frozen waffle at his invisible target.

Upon arrival Tony had told them that the roof is off-limits, so naturally that’s where Steve heads. They’d be able to reach him there if there’s an emergency. Taking the stairs two at a time, he reaches a single door at the top. Of course it’s locked, but it only takes a second to jimmy open a window on the adjacent wall and slide out into the cool autumn night air. 

Steve makes his way across the expansive flat rooftop guided by moonlight, heading towards a nearby chimney. Pushed against it is an overstuffed three-person couch cast in shadow. Someone had spray-painted the words “For people who want a place to sit, drink, and contemplate the meaning of the universe ONLY. All others will be shot.” Steve’s lips tick up in a tiny smile. He’d put his money on Tony, or maybe Rhodey. He settles down onto it and unscrews the cap of the large bottle in his hands, plopping the straw into the fizzing solution. Taking a sip and settling the bottle snugly between his thighs, Steve stuffs his cold hands in his hoodie pocket and allows his head to fall back against the couch’s scratchy fabric. He doesn’t know how long he sits there under the full moon and a spattering of stars and satellites, simply letting the night wash over him and his eternally stressed out mind.

This just might be the perfect place to decompress.

“You’re great at following directions,” a voice sounds from across the roof, its owner slowly loping over towards Steve.

 _Go away_ , Steve thinks despairingly, too boneless and comfortable to spit it out. “I like living recklessly.”

“Says the only sober person in a mile radius.” He drops down on the couch with a bottle of beer dangling from one hand.

Steve doesn’t look at him, keeping his head tilted back and half-lidded eyes glued firmly on the stars. “Not my fault I’m the only one who can control myself,” slips out, laced with helpless arrogance.

Tony keeps a cushion of space between them, but it feels like miles. “The only one who’s scared shitless of losing control of himself, you mean.”

Steve’s head lolls over. His eyes catch on Tony’s slouching silhouette, lips wrapped around the neck of the bottle, and his mouth goes dry. Tony’s nothing short of gorgeous like this, lips, nose, and dark lashes accentuated by sharp moonlight. He looks like something out of a dream. Steve’s face and ears heat up, his neck snaps straight so fast it practically gives him whiplash. There’s no way Tony missed his unabashed staring. The burning embarrassment doesn’t change the way that Steve would kill for a set of paints or a sketchbook so he could capture the lines of Tony’s profile. 

“So.” Tony ignores Steve’s discomfort, doesn’t drag it out like he normally would. It could be the late hour, the beer, any number of unrelated things that has Tony in a seemingly generous mood. “What part of the vast, expansive universe are you contemplating tonight, Rogers?”

Steve presses his lips to the straw. He ponders his answer for a moment. “The suddenly very weird, very fast-paced part of it that encompasses my life.”

“It’s certainly been a very plot-twisty day in Steve-land.”

“You have no idea,” Steve murmurs. He can finally identify why he’s so out of sorts tonight: he feels like he  _owes_  Tony after he saved Steve earlier. It leaves a sour feeling in his stomach. Steve hates it. He was supposed to lead them to an easy victory, not get knocked out in the twelfth round.

Tony nods thoughtfully. “You handled it well, though.” Steve glances at him, eyebrows raised incredulously. He still can’t take anything Tony says at face value, especially not right now, when he’s drunk and doesn’t mean any of it. “No, seriously. If you hadn’t nearly choked at first, I would’ve had no idea that you were panicking.”

Steve’s shoulders slump. But that’s the problem, isn’t it. The fact that he panicked at all. He’s been doing this for three years and has no excuse to crack under pressure like an anxious freshman. “I just – lost it, for a minute there, I guess. But…” he swallows, heart racing in his chest. Just spit it out already, Steve. “Thank you, for, y’know.”

“Yeah,” Tony says quietly, uncharacteristically simple and accepting. Steve’s heart calms down. He’s shocked by Tony’s behavior tonight as a whole. He’s oddly perceptive, which is a word Steve never thought he’d use to describe Stark in a million years.  

It’s what gives him the courage to barrel on. “I just kind of froze. Like in that moment I didn’t even know where I was. All I knew was that the score was tied, and it was all on me, but the words wouldn’t come out.” He sighs, looking out into the comfortable shroud of darkness that surrounds them. “And it had me thinking, I can never do the damn Districts right. Now that we’re passed that, I don’t think I can do this whole thing for real, not the way the team’s expecting me to, anyway.” His roundabout way of saying  _How the hell are we gonna win Regionals, against the best teams in the tri-state area, when I can’t go two years without fucking everything up?_

Tony seems to get it, though. Debate club’s always been their common language, the one area where they always agreed – certainly not on methods, but on the ultimate goal of winning the national championship. It’s never happened while Steve’s been at Midtown and he plans on setting a precedent.

“Steve. Once in awhile, someone will come along who’s so talented, so shockingly good at something, that it brings people to their feet. Inspiring them, touching them, wishing they could be  _that sure_  of who they are. Most people strive their whole goddamn lives to be that person. They work their asses off and hope that some day, they’ll get a chance at being that star, the person who makes people stop and stare. Most people never get that shot, they’ll never know what it’s like to be that person. And the people who have it, who  _are_  it, shouldn’t waste their talents wallowing in fear and the millions of ‘what ifs’ that come between them and greatness. Because that’d just be a shame, now wouldn’t it?” Tony looks at him, his brown eyes fixed intently on Steve’s.

Steve’s entire body feels like it’s on fire. He watches Tony for a long moment. “You give yourself this talk every morning, Stark?” comes out low and rough. He clears his throat self-consciously.

Tony smiles crookedly. “To the mirror before breakfast. 

“Mm. And here I was thinking that you’d never had a deep thought in your entire life.”

“Hey,” Tony taps the spray painted words behind them. “It’s practically a mandate. By the way, Rogers, don’t you dare breathe a word of this conversation to anyone. It’ll ruin my street cred.”

Steve chuckles and takes another sip of soda. “My lips are sealed.”

-&- 

 _Buzz, buzz, buzz_. Tony awakes with a start, his phone vibrating violently against his thigh. Disoriented, he finds himself lying on his side, face plunged deep into The Couch. Its pungent, liquor-and-body-fluids odor invades his nostrils with every breath he takes. He thanks whatever higher power there is that he’d managed to keep breathing throughout the night. He knew the damn thing was a disgusting death trap when he bought it, but dammit, it has character.

Tony reaches into his front pocket with his face still stuffed against the sofa’s rough, straw-like surface (it’ll give the appearance of beard burn, that’s a plus). Sliding his phone forcibly into the nonexistent space between his cheek and the cushion, he grumbles, “Speak.”

“You’re out of food.”

“Bruce?” Tony yawns, confused. There’s no way Bruce was at his house last night, he hates parties almost as much as Steve does.

“How is it possible that you’re completely out of food?” Tony hears the slamming of a door, one sounding remarkably like that of his fridge. “Like, yeah, okay, maybe I’d understand you being out of a few boxes of waffles, but there is literally no food anywhere in your house.” He can hear Bruce rifling through cabinets, opening and shutting each one desperately.

“It can’t be that bad, I think you’re exaggerating,” Tony attempts to reassure him, wincing at the sound of his pantry door being slammed shut. “Ask Jarvis or Beth to get you something.”

“They’re all the way in the North wing, probably still asleep. I’m not going to be rude and wake them up—” 

“So you thought it was okay to wake  _me_  up at this godforsaken hour—” Tony starts, but Bruce interrupts him with two sentences that make his blood run cold.

“You’re out of coffee, Tony. You’re never out of coffee.”

He grimaces. Okay, who does he have to kill today? “I—”

Tony’s mouth closes so hard his teeth audibly click. There had been a shift, a slight movement, on the couch. A movement he hadn’t made. And it came from the exact spot he’s laying on. He looks down, forehead scraping the garish green fabric. There, wrapped loosely around his torso, is a pair of muscular arms. Clearly, he’s not, as previously assumed, alone on the roof. Craning his neck, he looks around for the inevitably naked person. The last memory he has is leaving Steve’s house. Seeing a face always speeds recall up—

 _Oh, god._  Tony screws his eyes shut.  _I fucked up, I’m fucked up, I’ve never fucked up this badly before—_  

There, with his perfectly coiffed hair unnaturally messy, is Steve Rogers, his face nestled between Tony’s shoulder blades, snoring softly. Tony feels his heart rate spike every time Steve exhales, his hot breath ghosting down Tony’s back. His mind races at a million miles per hour. He does  _not_  want to be here when Steve wakes up and flips out, and there’s no universe where he wants to stick around to see the self-loathing and disappointment on Steve’s face when he gains awareness of the situation. He’d think Tony took advantage of him (he doesn’t remember but it sounds like something his drunk self would do) and all the progress they’d made over the last few weeks would be burned to the ground, and then some. Just the thought of Steve thinking of him as absolute scum again is enough to get him moving away from this disaster. 

Carefully, gently, Tony grabs the thick arm around him and pulls, hoping, praying, that Steve stays asleep. He rolls Steve onto his back so the offending arm is now dangling off the couch. Holding his breath and gingerly pulling himself into a standing position, Tony winces as his joints all crack loudly, but Steve continues to snore.

“You what? Decided to go on a hunger strike? You decided to go on a very strict diet? You’re having a moment of philanthropy and gave it all to the homeless?” Bruce’s voice rises incrementally. Tony is many things, but he is not equipped to deal with an angry Bruce Banner ever. “You decided to become a free bird who goes to the farmer’s market every day and doesn’t store any food in his house? You decided to adopt Jainism—”

“Hey!” Tony hisses and cups his hand over the phone. He moves across the cement, away from the peacefully slumbering boy. “I need you to calm down for a minute, okay?” A frustrated sigh comes from the other end, and Tony takes this to be a noise of assent. He rubs his eyes blearily as the sun rises over the trees. “Tell me what’s going on.  _Quietly_.” 

Bruce’s voice is thick with restrained irritation. “I came over to your place, tired and disoriented as all hell, hoping you’d take pity and make me a nice, warm breakfast.” He speaks quietly, tone measured and slow, but all Tony can hear is the angry shaking in his voice. “Instead, all I found was a mountain of garbage, people passed out on your floor, and a devastatingly empty kitchen.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Brucey, but I’m pretty sure you have a well-stocked kitchen at your house.” 

“Yes, I know,” Bruce says dismissively. “But you live closer.”

“Closer to where?” Tony whispers.

“The lab, duh,” Bruce sighs, as if Tony had just asked the most moronic question in the history of moronic questions. 

Tony mashes his lips together. “Bruce, you fucking nerd.” Behind him, he hears the faint sound of something rustling, moving. “Umm, yeah, anyways,” he says, voice a rushed whisper as he tiptoes towards the window, his sweet salvation from the oncoming discomfort. “I’ll be down in a sec, ‘kay?” 

“Wait, where are y—”

“Okay bye!” Tony hangs up and makes a break for it.

“You know, I’m never thought I’d be on the receiving end of one of your I-have-to-sneak-out-quickly-before-the-idiot-I-slept-with-last-night tiptoes,” Steve mumbles into the couch. Tony freezes and turns around slowly, every muscle painfully locked.   

He braces himself for the accusations, the sense of betrayal from Steve. Tony can handle him at his worst; he’s been doing it for three years. “Do me a favor and save it, Steve.” It doesn’t even sound like him.

Steve looks him up and down, examining his stance. The bastard’s  _smiling_. What gives? “I think you may be overreacting, Tony.” He seems relatively okay with the situation, for someone who spends the better part of his time in Tony’s vicinity hurling insults in his direction. Tony shakes his head violently, opening his mouth to speak. Steve stands up and in three strides, grabs Tony’s shoulders gently, effectively stopping his response in his throat. Tony’s entire body thrums, painfully aware of the heat of Steve’s hands on his biceps. He feels disgustingly nervous, school-girly, one light touch away from breaking out into a fit of giggles. “We just  _slept_ , Tony.” Steve takes his hands off of Tony, gesturing at his jeans and sweatshirt. “You’re still clothed, which is probably a disappointing way for you to wake up on a Sunday morning.”

 _Only really when it comes to you_ , Tony thinks. The heavy, anxious weight on his shoulders lifts slightly.

“I’m still clothed. So the point is, you probably don’t even remember, but we didn’t do anything. We just happened to fall asleep at the same place, at the same time.” Tony must still look apprehensive because Steve sighs and presses on. “If you’re worried that our  _fantastic_ , totally healthy friendship will be ruined because we didn’t have a fight in eight hours, then don’t be. You were passed out for a majority of it so it doesn’t even count. If it makes you feel any better, I promise to make some snarky comment about your morning breath the second we get downstairs.”

Tony shakes his head, staring at a spot in the sky just left of Steve’s earnest eyes. “It’s not that,” he lies, because the relief he feels is palpable and alarming in its intensity. “It’s just – I don’t want people knowing. About this,” Tony gestures between them, and Steve’s eyebrows narrow. “Look, we both know we didn’t do anything. But if Rhodey, or Clint, or Darcy, or Natasha, or literally anyone catches wind of the fact that we spent a night together, in the carnal sense of the phrase or not, I can guarantee you that I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Steve scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Seriously? That’s what you’re worried about? Whether or not some people will have the chance to make a few meaningless comments about the relationship that we don’t have?”

“They’re not going to care about—”

The blond lets out an exasperated sigh. “Look, Tony, I hate to break this to you, but no one in their right minds is going to believe that we had sex. I’m not exactly your standard issue one-night-stand.”

That’s when it finally hits home. Steve’s right, he’s not some intoxicated, horny partygoer that Tony can con into his bed with a simple flutter of his lashes. People would have a hard time believing that Steve would ever, in a thousand years, give into Tony’s charm. The thought should make Tony feel better. Instead… 

Tony shakes off the dissonance. “Right, it’s not like you’re even close to my type,” he says breezily, hoping the half-truth comes out naturally. 

Apparently it does. Steve opens his mouth to say something, but a strange look crosses his face and he snaps it shut. He appears to be mulling over his response carefully, as if it isn’t something he’s particularly keen about sharing with Tony. Probably some kind of insult. Finally his internal battle ends, and his lips set into a resolved line. “Funny, I thought the only requisite for your affections was a pulse,” he says with a smirk that looks forced.

“Fuck. I totally walked into that one,” groans Tony.

Half an hour later, they’re situated in the midst of the ever-packed diner, surrounded by some extremely hungover friends. “What I don’t understand,” Tony comments between gulps of coffee, “is how you all managed to eat every single item of food in my whole house.” 

Thor grins cheekily and shovels yet another syrup-heavy pancake into his mouth. “We’re men of many talents.” 

“You’re suicidal, that’s what you are,” interjects Bruce who’s swallowing his fifth piece of bacon this morning. “I mean, you even ate that weird container of un-identified, slime-like substance that’s been sitting in the back of his fridge for god-knows how many months. If that’s not a death wish, I don’t know what is.” 

“That was a dead snake in brine, I was preserving it for an experiment,” Tony says with a completely straight face just to see how they’d react.

Thor’s eyes bulge and Bucky turns a suspicious shade of green. “Did you eat that?” they ask each other simultaneously.

Tony cackles madly before one of them pukes all over their table. “I’m just fucking with you!” 

“Sure you are, Stark,” Bucky says weakly from under his arms folded on the table. “Is that why I feel sick?”

“No, I think that’s just the half-bottle of tequila you downed last night,” says Steve, wiping his mouth on a napkin. Tony doesn’t stare, he doesn’t.

“Don’t sound so smug.” Bucky runs a hand across his face, which becomes increasingly green with every minute that passes. “Just because you’re miraculously hangover-free doesn’t mean you get to mock me in my moment of weakness, punk.”

Tony and Steve exchange a look. When they snuck downstairs thirty minutes prior, they were greeted by a mountain of trash and toilet paper, an empty kitchen, and the sound of Bruce’s furious pacing. Everyone else had still been, thankfully, passed out. After they’d woken up, none seemed the least bit concerned about how both Steve and Tony were missing from their wild night. Either they were too drunk to notice or experiencing too much pain to care.

Whatever the case, Tony’s not complaining. Steve had once again displayed his incredible capacity to play it by ear; he hadn’t so much as flinched the whole morning, dodging the subject so well that you’d be genuinely surprised to know that he hadn’t been downstairs with the rest of them eating copious amounts of food. In fact, Tony has to remind himself a few times that he hadn’t just imagined the whole night.

“Don’t bitch at me, Buck. Natasha and Jane are fine too,” says Steve.

Everyone turns to look at the girls. “We teamed up for beer pong and kicked everyone’s asses,” Jane shrugs.

“Betrayal,” Thor moans.

“We’ll win next time, buddy.” Clint comes up and claps the blond on the shoulder. “We laying the bill on Stark again, fellas?”

“Hit me with it, Clint.” Tony extends a hand and Clint slaps the check into his palm. The rest of the table dissolves into side conversations and headache-induced naps, in the case of Bucky. Bruce continues eating ravenously, tucked into the corner of the booth, and shows no sign of surfacing soon.

“Hey, that guy’s not in debate,” Clint ticks his chin at Bruce. Tony’s phone, which had been laid out on the tabletop, chooses that moment to vibrate obnoxiously loudly.

“Need to put this damn thing on silent,” he mutters as he checks it. “Yeah, that’s Bruce Banner.”

“Oh, the crazy genius whiz.”

Tony looks up and presses a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “Thought I was the only crazy genius whiz.”

“Yeah, but this guy over here has wire-framed glasses. Dunno if you can top that, Tony.” The text is from Rhodey. It’s a selfie with Jarvis and Pepper, who wear identical exaggerated frowns with their hands on their hips. Tony cracks a huge smile and types a quick reply. “Who’s that, your new boy-toy?” asks Clint, craning his neck to see the screen.

Steve had been sitting directly across from Tony and quietly chewing on the scrambled eggs he’d ordered. He stiffens at Clint’s words and looks up at Tony, jaw set. For some reason Tony feels like he owes him another apology. Instead, he shows Clint the picture.

The barista’s brow crinkles as he points at Jarvis. “He’s a little old for you, isn’t he? I mean, good for you if you’re into that silver fox thing, but Viagra has side effects.” Tony sees Steve look away sharply in his peripheral vision, his breath catching in his chest.  

But Clint’s comment has Tony in stitches, because one,  _ew no_ , and two, Jarvis would combust if he ever heard it. “That’s my butler, you flaming asshole.” Upon hearing his words, Steve relaxes immediately and turns back to his breakfast. Waves of inexplicable relief course through Tony.

Clint rolls his eyes. “You know, some people get bitchy when they’re hungover.” He reaches for Tony’s coffee and takes a long sip as Tony squawks in protest, before turning back and raising his eyebrows cheekily. “Good thing you’re not one of those people.” 

“Is it possible to give someone a negative tip?” Tony muses aloud. “I guess not. Zero will have to do.”

“Wait, wait, wait, Stark-man, lets not do anything hasty.”


End file.
